17. Cora
Cora
That manipulative asshole. I should’ve seen it coming, but instead I fell for his dirty tricks once again.
I’m nearly weeping tears of frustration by the time I make it back to my bedroom.
I toss and turn for hours, thinking of Brady with only a wall between us, how easy it would be to give in to my temptation.
But when all else fails, my stubborn streak does not.
I must drift off at some point, because when I wake up, there’s late morning sun streaming into my gray and white room. When I pad out into the main living area, I find a note on the breakfast table, a thick cotton card embossed with the O’Sullivan Holding Company logo.
Out for the day. Don’t do anything fucking stupid. -Brady.
I rip up the card, which is more difficult than expected given the quality of the stock.
It only makes me angrier, and now I’m fully awake without coffee.
Grumbling obscenities, I help myself to breakfast in the kitchen, a banana from the hook on the counter and Icelandic yogurt from the well-stocked fridge.
I amuse myself by imagining Brady watching me eat my makeshift breakfast.
If he were here, I’d take my time with the banana. See how he fucking likes getting teased.
After a call with Lucy to confirm that everything’s going well at the clinic, I take a shower using the toiletries I snagged from the hotel. Beneath the scalding water, I calculate my next move. If I’m going to beat Brady at his own game, then I’ll need to be prepared, which means well-informed.
And Brady and his family are no longer my only enemies.
I decide on an indirect approach. The best way to outflank my husband will be to prove that I’m better than he is at what he does.
What we both do, now that I’m back in this manipulative world.
Hair towel-dried and laptop in hand, I settle myself on a living room couch, the one that overlooks the city.
Then I begin my research.
Mortimer Vanleusen the Seventh exists in his own stratosphere of wealth.
But regardless of how untouchable he is, he’s the bastard responsible for getting my husband stabbed.
Granted, I’d very much like to stab my husband myself, but it’s the principle of the matter.
Seven made a move that cannot go unpunished.
Unfortunately, the man is a media darling. I’ll admit that he’s classically handsome, but he isn’t sexy in the way Brady so frustratingly is. But the fact that he’s good-looking and well-named and rich means he’s the subject of countless tabloid articles.
I scroll through the most recent ones. In the pictures of him on various Chicago sidewalks, he’s typically dressed in expensive-looking grunge wear, and he always has a rail-thin blonde with him, a different one each time.
A fake-chested one catches my eye in a photo from a few weeks ago. I zoom in on her face.
“Why, hello, Serena.”
Possibly our clinic’s wealthiest client, Serena Perkins is one of those women who calls everyone darling unironically.
I performed her LASIK procedure about a month ago, and ever since then she’s been pestering me to give her an eyelid lift, despite the fact I only do that procedure when medically necessary.
Serena’s would be purely cosmetic. But that hasn’t stopped her from continually upping her offered price and inviting me out to lunch with her at her exclusive club, like I could be swayed by such a bribe.
I glance at my laptop’s clock. Almost noon. It wouldn’t be a violation of patient confidentiality, merely accepting a new friend’s proffered hand. And besides, it’s necessary.
Brady was stabbed last night. There needs to be retaliation. The very thought makes the viper in my chest raise her head in readiness. I’m a mafia wife, but I’m not about to accept sitting on the sidelines like Charlotte and our mother.
Seven Vanleusen brought violence into my household. I do not intend to let him get away with it.
I tap through my contacts and call Serena Perkins. As soon as she picks up, my brain switches into doctor mode.
“Hi, Ms. Perkins,” I say in my patient-soothing voice, “this is Dr. Greene from Thornton Eye Clinic, how are you?”
Dr. Thornton, aka Jennifer, had wanted to name our practice the Thornton-Greene Eye Clinic, but I persuaded her to let me remain behind the scenes, with no name on the building or photo on the website.
Yet another element of privacy I’ve had to forsake, thanks to the O’Sullivans’ publicity team feeding a wedding photo of me and Brady to the public.
And that public includes a certain Serena Perkins.
“Samantha, you scamp!” she says in delight. “Or should I say Cora? I almost died of shock when I read about your wedding. My dear friend Samantha, plain as day, referred to as Cora Muloney in the article—and as she got married to an O’Sullivan, no less. And where was my invitation, by the way?”
I grit my teeth. I’ve never liked Serena’s informality in our doctor-patient relationship—never calling me Dr. Greene and treating me like a bestie rather than her surgeon. But right now it’s to my advantage.
“I’m so sorry, babe,” I say, almost gagging on the word. “It was such a whirlwind romance, and then the wedding itself was so quick we weren’t able to invite anyone really. But I am sorry that—”
“A whirlwind romance,” Serena interrupts me with a dreamy sigh. “Not to worry, I forgive you, even though I still say you’re a scamp for keeping your secret identity from me. I thought we were close!”
We aren’t close. But if Serena says we are, it’s good for me, so all I do is agree with her and apologize again. I’m about to steer the conversation in the direction I need when she does it for me.
“We absolutely must get lunch together sometime, darling.”
“I know,” I say, my tone apologetic despite my excitement. “I’m absolutely terrible for putting you off so many times.” When she says she forgives me for being so busy, I add, “Why not today? Would one o’clock work for you?”
There’s a surprised pause, and I cross my fingers in my lap.
“Oh how fabulous!” she says after a beat. “Yes, that’s perfect!”
We hang up with plans to meet at her club. Nerves buzzing, I change into my frilliest sundress and least-pilled cardigan. Then I’m on my way to glean information about this Seven Vanleusen.
* * *
Serena’s club is only a few blocks from the eye clinic.
It’s one of the reasons she’s been pressuring me to meet her there, as if I could just duck out for a two-hour lunch.
When I get off the L, I take the long way around to avoid the clinic.
I’ve been checking in with Lucy, but things with Jennifer are still tense enough that I don’t want her to see me through the waiting room window, walking on by all happily married.
At least, ostensibly happily married.
The late summer sun is so hot I’m carrying my sweater. Stepping into the club’s air-conditioned lobby is like stepping into an oak-paneled freezer. It’s not practical for the chill, but I tie my sweater around my shoulders, the way Serena always wears hers.
Up on the swanky top floor, I give the host Serena’s name, and his smile turns stiff. Having worked for years as a server, I know what that means. It’s unsurprising that Serena’s a difficult patron.
The host leads me back to the dining room. It’s a posh, antique space, with art deco panels and rippled glass windows. I thank him as Serena leaps out of her chair to greet me. She gives me two air kisses on each cheek, and I nearly gag on the amount of French perfume she’s wearing.
As soon as I’m seated, our server comes over to provide me with a champagne flute. Serena doesn’t acknowledge him, apart from sliding her own empty flute toward him. The champagne is in a crystal ice bucket on the table in front of her, but she’s not the type to refill a glass herself.
Serena talks at me for an hour nonstop. She doesn’t order any food, so I follow her lead.
Some lunch. The server, bless him, does an excellent job of keeping our flutes replenished.
He seems familiar enough with Serena that he not only anticipates her refills, but offers me sympathetic smiles while she keeps talking at me.
Just sitting and listening wouldn’t be so bad, but I also have to feign the attitude of a cheerful new bride, which chafes like a too-tight shirt collar.
I smile and nod as I listen to Serena’s plans to winter in Bali, which she peppers with unrelated remarks about not being invited to the wedding.
I do a decent job of evading her comments, as well as swatting away her probing questions about cosmetic eyelid lifts.
“Not that you need it, darling,” I always make sure to add.
As she drones on, the sunlight moves across our table, casting rainbows through the crystal ice bucket, which I’m guessing is Waterford.
The fact that this club is old money Chicago has me on my guard.
It’s easily accessible to Seven, and anyone he might’ve hired to keep tabs on Serena.
Our table is conveniently tucked away, but I keep my eyes open for potential eavesdroppers.
Even if the listener didn’t recognize my face, it’d be all too easy for them to identify me.
Serena’s the type of person to overuse her audience’s names for emphasis. Every time she calls me Samantha, she simpers before correcting herself. It’s less accidental each time. She makes a point of never just calling me Cora, but always Cora O’Sullivan.
“And how do you like being an O’Sullivan?” she asks, catching me off guard.
I fucking hate being an O’Sullivan, thanks so much for asking.
“I love it,” I lie easily, and the champagne helps my false enthusiasm. “It’s like a fairytale.”
In the way Bluebeard is a fairytale, I add mentally. A story full of dead bodies and dark secrets, complete with a villainous husband in possession of way too many keys.
“You know, I recently dated a guy who hated the O’Sullivans.” Serena leans forward conspiratorially, her fake boobs skimming the tablecloth. I’m not sure if she expects me to be offended, but I choose to let my intrigue show. For the first time this afternoon, I want her to keep talking.
“Really?” I ask. “Did he say why?”
“Oh, just that they’re upstarts and social climbers. He had a thing against the nouveau riche, especially the grubby South Side kind. His words, not mine. Honestly, if he saw me here having lunch with you, he’d be disgusted.”
I feel my cheeks go hot, but it must be all the champagne. I don’t care if someone thinks ill of the O’Sullivans. I have no real attachment to their name, legally or emotionally.
“Oh honey, don’t let it bother you.” Serena flaps her hand.
“I’m here with you anyway, aren’t I? His opinions don’t mean anything to me anymore, and he had a lot of weird takes, honestly.
Not just about the O’Sullivans, but like stuff in general, his whole preference situation, you know?
The things he was into were so…” She shudders dramatically.
“What do you mean?” I ask, all innocence. I resist the urge to nudge her champagne flute closer to her.
“Forget I said anything.” She’s about to dismiss this whole conversation, which means I need to appeal to her gossipy side. She is, at heart, a member of the snarky society crowd. She gives me an elegant shrug. “I mean, the guy seriously hates the O’Sullivans so much, I really shouldn’t tell you.”
“Isn’t that why you should tell me?” I sip my champagne like it’s tea, and Serena bursts into chimes of mean laughter.
“You are such a scamp! Okay, but you cannot tell anyone.” She raises her manicured eyebrows at me, and I give her a solemn nod. “He wanted to, you know, on a stack of—” She taps the side of her nose and sniffs. I blink as if it takes me a while to comprehend, then I pretend I’m incredulous.
“A stack?”
“Yes! And you know me, I’m no prude, a little powder never hurt anybody, but it was literally a pyramid of stacked packages of—” She gives a flick of her wrist to represent the word cocaine.
I widen my eyes with disbelief, and she scrambles to tell me more.
“I was so horrified that I told him absolutely not, and then he got furious and just kicked me out. He wouldn’t even give me a ride home!
And it’s not like we were in the city, he’d driven me all the way out to some warehouse of his.
I’d thought he was taking me to an airplane hangar to surprise me with a trip somewhere, I mean he’s got the plane and the funds.
But no, he wanted to have—on a stack of—Anyway. ”
She swallows the last of her champagne. I refill it for her, emptying the bottle, and she takes another large gulp.
“Right, so it was so far away from everything that no car service even goes out there, so I had to figure out where I was using Maps, then call six different cab companies. It got to a point where I was like, I will seriously pay you however much money you want if you come and pick me up at this random warehouse that’s at the farthest frickin’ edge of West Park’s industrial district.
I swear, I had to say that so many times it literally haunts my dreams. That, and the image of a pyramid of… you know.”
I school my features to make my elation look like horror. I remind myself that this could be information that the O’Sullivans already have. It could be bad information, depending on how good Serena’s memory is. Or it could be outdated information, the warehouse no longer in use.
“That’s horrible,” I say. “I’m so sorry he put you through that. Was he always into stuff like that?”
“No. It literally came out of nowhere.” Serena shakes her head.
Our server swoops by with a fresh bottle of champagne, but Serena doesn’t notice him.
I thank him quietly, and he nods at me with another sympathetic smile.
As he whisks away our empty bottle, Serena nearly hits him with a dramatic flap of her hand, like she’s trying to shoo away her entire experience with Seven.
“Sorry,” she says to me. “I’m getting worked up. My guru says only happy thoughts. I have to talk about something else. Bali! Oh my goodness, you have to see this private villa that I’ve booked for the month.”
She taps through her phone to show me. I ooh and ahh over the images, forcing myself to be satisfied with the information I already have.
If it’s good information, then it’s a weapon.
Brady might have guns for shooting and knives for throat stabbing, but this is my contribution.
Succeeding in this world isn’t only about filling people with bullets, it’s also about making the right connections with the right people.
Not just knowing who to trust, but how to manipulate those you can’t trust, how to work any connection to your advantage.
Connection is exactly what Samantha Greene avoided at all costs.
And it’s exactly what I’m here to exploit.