10. Party Favors
Chapter ten
Party Favors
The kitchen island was buried under layers of cream-colored cardstock, metallic gold envelopes, and a half-dozen catering menus.
Sylvia stood in the center of the clutter, her phone pressed tightly to her ear.
She wore a tailored beige pantsuit. Her manicured index finger tapped a light rhythm against the countertop.
The fiftieth birthday party was exactly four days away, and she was micromanaging every single detail under the guise of sweet, helpless concern.
“Oh, I know the supplier was late, but I’m just sick over this,” Sylvia cooed into the phone, her voice dripping with artificial sympathy.
“We explicitly agreed on the Beluga caviar for the VIP table. Mr. Sanders is so particular, and I’d just be absolutely heartbroken if the evening was ruined over something like Osetra.
You’ll fix it for me, won’t you? Thank you, darling. ”
She ended the call, setting her phone gently onto the stack of menus. She let out a long-suffering sigh and pressed her fingertips to her temples, playing the exhausted martyr to an audience of one.
I stood near the sink, methodically washing a coffee mug. The soapy water gave me something physical to focus on.
“Elena, baby.” Sylvia sighed, turning around to offer me a tired smile. “Did you manage to confirm the private room at Le Petit Chateau? And you reminded them about the shellfish cross-contamination? I hate to put so much on you while you’re pregnant, but my brain is just entirely fried.”
I turned off the faucet, picked up a dry dish towel, and began wiping the ceramic mug.
She hadn’t lifted a single finger to organize the actual logistics of the event.
I had spent the last two weeks coordinating the florist, finalizing the venue, and managing the RSVPs while she scheduled her massages and hair appointments.
She simply floated in at the end to dictate the menu and complain.
It had helped Hayes and me with our plan. But a part of me was still disgusted by it. Or maybe angry at the fact that for months, I had completely missed her manipulation.
“I confirmed the reservation yesterday, Mom,” I replied evenly. “The private dining room is locked in. The chef is aware of the allergy protocols.”
“Thank goodness,” Sylvia said, picking up her phone again to scroll through her emails. “Because if Marcus’s boss has a reaction, the entire evening is ruined. The optics would just be disastrous for Marcus’s career.”
The optics. Not the fact that someone could stop breathing, but the visual aesthetic of the party.
The door leading from the garage swung open.
Marcus stepped into the kitchen, looking genuinely exhausted as he rubbed the back of his neck. He set his briefcase gently on the floor and loosened his tie, letting out a long breath.
“Sanders is on an absolute rampage,” Marcus said, leaning in to kiss my cheek before opening the refrigerator.
He pulled out a bottle of sparkling water.
“He fired the VP of acquisitions this afternoon. The guy’s wife found a second cell phone and caused a scene in the lobby.
Sanders had security escort him out before lunch. ”
I kept my face perfectly still. My mind bypassed the shock and immediately locked onto the logistical reality. The timing was a loaded gun. Sanders was actively purging the firm of moral liabilities four days before our dinner.
Sylvia’s manicured hand froze over her phone screen. “Fired him?” she repeated. “Just over a phone?”
“Sanders is a puritan.” Marcus sighed, twisting the cap off the water bottle. He took a long swallow. “He views infidelity as a fundamental breach of contract. He had his private security team march the guy out right in front of the lobby reception desk.”
Marcus lowered the bottle. He stared at the marble backsplash, shaking his head at his coworker’s stupidity.
He entirely failed to connect his boss’s rigid morality to his own actions. He was so insulated by his own arrogance that he truly believed the rules didn’t apply to him.
He walked over to me, wrapping an arm around my waist. “I need to shower, change, and get straight back downtown for damage control. I can’t walk through the corporate lobby carrying laundry today of all days.
Babe, could you drop my blue suit at the dry cleaners?
I spilled coffee on the cuff during the chaos. ”
I set the dry mug into the cupboard, leaving the dish towel on the edge of the sink. I leaned into his side, playing the supportive, understanding wife.
“Of course. I can handle it,” I promised softly.
“Take it to the place on Maple,” Marcus instructed. “They have my corporate card on file. Don’t take it to the boutique in the village. They overcharge.”
He gave my shoulder an appreciative squeeze and walked out of the kitchen, heading straight for the staircase to change. Sylvia immediately abandoned her catering menus. She smoothed the front of her pantsuit and followed him up the stairs, her heels clicking against the hardwood treads.
The kitchen emptied out.
I stared at the stack of gold envelopes and thick manila folders on the counter. The RSVP list and the seating chart were buried somewhere in that mess. Julian Sinclair’s process server needed the exact layout of the Bordeaux Room to execute the delivery seamlessly.
I checked the digital clock on the oven. 1:15 PM.
I listened to the muffled thud of footsteps moving across the master bedroom directly above me. I had maybe three minutes before one of them came back downstairs.
I crossed quickly to the island. Ignoring the decorative menus, I went straight for the thick, cream-colored folder Sylvia had been using to track the RSVPs. I opened it, my eyes scanning the pages until I found the oversized layout of the private dining room.
Sylvia had written the names in precise, color-coded ink. There was the head table. There was Marcus’s seat. And right next to it, designated with a gold star, was Arthur Sanders’s.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I snapped three high-resolution photos of the seating chart, ensuring the names were perfectly legible and their proximity to the entrance was clear. I flipped to the final guest list and took two more photos of the alphabetized names.
The floorboards creaked at the top of the stairs.
I slipped my phone back into my pocket, closed the cream-colored folder, and nudged it a quarter of an inch to the left so it sat exactly where Sylvia had left it.
I stepped back to the sink and picked up the dish towel just as Sylvia came back down the stairs, carrying Marcus’s stained suit jacket.
“He’s jumping in the shower,” Sylvia said, tossing the heavy wool jacket over the back of a dining chair. “Make sure you get that to the cleaners today, El.”
“I will,” I said.
I waited an hour. I waited for Marcus to leave for the city and for Sylvia to retreat to her room for her afternoon nap.
Only then did I grab my purse and walk out the back door, slipping quietly across the property line to Hayes’s house.
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across Hayes’s home office.
He was sitting at his desk, wearing a comfortable green sweater, reviewing the data on his monitors.
I sat in the chair beside him, watching the upload bar on Sinclair’s secure client portal finish processing. I had just transmitted the photos of the seating chart directly to the law firm.
My phone vibrated on the desk. A text from Sinclair illuminated the screen.
Layout received. Server is briefed. Order will be granted tomorrow morning. Proceed with the visual evidence.
“He’s got it,” I said, setting the phone down.
“Good,” Hayes replied. “Then let’s get the rest of it ready.”
He clicked his mouse, dragging a specific video file into an editing program. It was footage we had found on the secure server two weeks ago.
“This is the clearest shot,” Hayes muttered, staring at the screen.
The image loaded. It was a still frame pulled directly from the hidden camera inside the guest-room clock. The lighting was clear. Marcus and Sylvia were visible on the mattress, naked and completely entwined. The intimacy of their posture was undeniable.
Sinclair had warned us weeks ago that the guest-room footage would likely be legally inadmissible in court. Expectation-of-privacy laws meant a judge would throw it out if we tried to use it for the divorce filing.
But I wasn’t submitting this to a judge. I was serving it for dessert.
Hayes highlighted the image frame and hit the print command.
The high-end photo printer sitting on the far side of the desk whirred to life, its mechanical hum filling the quiet office. A thick sheet of glossy, eight-by-ten photo paper slowly slid out of the tray.
Hayes pushed his chair back and stood up, stepping behind my rolling chair. He rested his hands on my shoulders, his thumbs pressing firmly into the tight muscles at the base of my neck.
The physical contact kept me anchored to the present.
I leaned my head back against him for a brief second, exhaling a long breath. Then I reached forward and picked the freshly printed photo out of the tray.
The glossy texture of the paper felt slick and substantial. The colors were sharp. The betrayal was sitting right there in my hands.
“We need at least fifty copies,” I said, my voice completely steady.
Hayes nodded. He reached over and clicked the print command again, adjusting the quantity on the screen. The printer immediately began humming, churning out the proof of Marcus’s actions.
I opened a cardboard box resting on the edge of the desk. Inside were dozens of heavy-stock black envelopes. I had ordered them online days ago, ensuring they matched the exact dimensions of the photographs.
Picking up the first photo, I methodically pulled the edges of the black envelope open and slid the glossy paper inside.
“Party favors,” I said with a smile. “So very classy. Exactly what Sylvia would want.”
I picked up a stick of burgundy sealing wax and held it over the flame of a lighter that Hayes held out for me. The wax melted, dripping a thick puddle onto the point of the envelope flap. I pressed a heavy brass stamp directly into it. The seal hardened instantly, securing the paper inside.
Hayes leaned his weight against the edge of the desk, crossing his arms over his chest. He watched me work in silence.
“They aren’t going to see it coming,” Hayes murmured.
I picked up the second photo and slid it into the black envelope. “No,” I agreed, staring at the wax seal. “They won’t.”
And it was only fitting, wasn’t it? I hadn’t seen their betrayal coming. They wouldn’t see mine.