11. Setting the Tables
Chapter eleven
Setting the Tables
“Make sure you take a cab at exactly five-thirty,” Sylvia instructed, checking her reflection in the foyer mirror. She adjusted the lapel of her beige pantsuit, then turned and reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come early and help with the caterers?” I asked, resting a hand on my stomach.
Sylvia let out a soft gasp, placing a manicured hand over her heart.
“Oh, sweetie, absolutely not. You’re in your third trimester.
I’d be worried sick if you were on your feet all afternoon running around a hot restaurant.
You just stay right here, put your feet up, and rest. I want my girl looking fresh and beautiful tonight. ”
She patted my cheek gently, her eyes darting back to her own reflection in the mirror to check her lipstick.
“Marcus already left for the city,” Sylvia added, picking up her keys. “So you have the entire house to yourself. Promise Mommy you’ll relax?”
“I promise,” I said. What a lie. I’d relax once she and Marcus paid for what they’d done.
Sylvia beamed at me, oblivious. “Excellent,” she cooed. “Love you.”
She gave me a final quick hug and left the house. The front door clicked shut. The deadbolt engaged.
The performance was over.
Stay right here, put your feet up, and look beautiful tonight.
She sounded so incredibly caring, but the translation was clear.
Stay on the shelf so you don’t get scuffed before the show.
To them, I wasn’t a daughter or a wife. I was just a prop.
You didn’t bring the props to the rehearsal.
You left them in the box until the curtain went up.
I walked upstairs to the master bedroom. I didn’t feel a single ounce of nostalgia for the vaulted ceilings or the expensive rugs. Thanks to Julian Sinclair, the house was legally mine. Today was simply about taking out the trash.
I walked past Marcus’s dresser and went directly into the walk-in closet.
I reached up to the highest shelf, my fingers finding the thick plastic of the black garment bag. I’d retrieved it from the attic two nights before and hidden it behind a stack of winter blankets on my side of the closet.
I dragged the bag off the shelf, lowered it to the hardwood floor, and unzipped it.
The Chantilly lace spilled out, pooling white and delicate against the dark wood.
I knelt beside it, running my hand over the bodice.
The violent tear Marcus had ripped into the fabric was jagged and raw, the antique silk threads permanently snapped.
Right near the collar, a faint smudge of Sylvia’s beige foundation stained the pristine white material.
Women were taught to preserve their wedding dresses. We were supposed to keep them safe in the dark and pass them down to our daughters so they could wear the history of our love.
I pressed my hand flat against my swollen stomach.
I wasn’t saving this for my daughter anymore. I was using it to buy her freedom.
I reached behind me and pulled an immaculate white gift box from the bottom rack of the closet.
Grabbing handfuls of the ruined lace, I shoved the desecrated fabric into the massive box.
It was more satisfying than I’d thought it would be.
And as I crammed the torn tulle into the square confines, I couldn’t help but smile.
I arranged the top layer deliberately, ensuring the jagged tear and the smear of Sylvia’s makeup were positioned face up. It would be the first thing she saw the second the lid was lifted.
I pressed the stiff cardboard lid onto the box and picked up a spool of crimson silk ribbon I’d bought at a craft store. My hands didn’t shake as I wrapped the ribbon around the cardboard. Pulling the fabric tight, I tied an elaborate bow directly in the center.
It looked exactly like a beautiful, expensive birthday gift.
I stood up, grabbed the box by the ribbon, and carried it out of the closet, setting it down on the edge of the mattress.
Now that Sylvia’s gift was ready, it was my turn. It was time to get dressed.
I opened my bottom drawer and retrieved the garment bag I’d hidden beneath my sweaters. Inside lay a striking emerald maternity dress. I’d bought it with cash meticulously skimmed from my weekly grocery allowance over the last three weeks.
I stripped off my cotton leggings and T-shirt, tossing them onto the floor.
I pulled the emerald dress over my head, sliding my arms through the long sleeves.
The dense jersey fabric was incredibly comfortable, but it didn’t hide a thing.
It clung to the swell of my breasts and the pronounced curve of my stomach.
The sharp V-neckline framed my collarbones.
I turned and looked in the full-length mirror attached to the back of the bedroom door.
The woman staring back at me was visibly, undeniably pregnant. Framed by the rich green color, my pale skin looked vibrant. The heavy engagement diamond on my left hand caught the light.
It wasn’t a symbol of love. It was a prop, bought to visually communicate his success. It was a tangible piece of equity he made me wear so his partners could see exactly how well he took care of his compliant wife.
It was a sparkling lie, and I just had to carry it for a few more hours.
A sudden, sharp kick thumped against my lower ribs.
I rested my hand over the spot, feeling the rapid movement of my daughter beneath the fabric. The physical contact grounded me. Taking a deep breath, I let the steady rhythm of her movements settle my pulse, then grabbed my structured leather purse.
The weight of my phone and my wallet rested comfortably against my hip. I picked up the ribbon-tied gift box from the mattress. It was cumbersome, but it wasn’t difficult to carry.
I walked out of the master suite, down the stairs, and straight out the front door.
I didn’t look back.
The moment I stepped onto the porch, the muggy afternoon air hit my face.
Hayes was standing at the end of the paved walkway, leaning against the front grille of his truck.
He wore a dark, perfectly tailored suit.
The sharp cut of the jacket highlighted his broad shoulders.
My mouth went dry. Even now, on such an important day for my revenge, I couldn’t help but want him.
Later, Elena. You’ll have plenty of time.
His head snapped up as the front door closed.
His gray eyes locked onto me. He tracked the form-fitting emerald dress and the proud curve of my stomach. Pushing off the truck, he took a single step forward.
“Christ, Elena,” he murmured. “You look spectacular.”
A sudden flush of heat crawled up my neck. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t fully suppress my body’s response to him. “Thank you,” I replied. “You clean up well, too, Mr. Alexander.”
Hayes crossed the lawn, reaching out to effortlessly take the large box from my hands. He didn’t ask what was inside. He just carried it to the truck and loaded it carefully into the spacious backseat, setting it right next to the stack of black envelopes secured with the stamped wax seals.
He turned back, opened the passenger door, and offered his hand.
I placed my left hand into his callused palm. His grip was warm and incredibly solid. I stepped up into the truck, and he shut the door firmly behind me.
Hayes vaulted into the driver’s seat and jammed his key into the ignition. The massive engine roared to life, a deep vibration shaking the floorboards of the cab.
“The process server just confirmed,” Hayes announced, shifting the truck into drive. “He’s parked in the alley behind the restaurant. He has a clear line of sight to the main entrance.”
“And Sinclair?” I asked.
Hayes pulled the truck away from the curb. He didn’t look back at my house.
“He texted ten minutes ago,” Hayes confirmed, navigating the neighborhood streets.
“The judge signed the ex parte order at noon. Sinclair executed the asset freeze at one. His private security team is heading to the house right now to change the locks and reset the alarm codes while we’re at the restaurant. ”
A long breath escaped my lungs. It was done. The absolute power Marcus held over my life had been systematically dismantled.
“Then let’s go to a birthday party,” I stated, staring straight ahead through the windshield.
Hayes let out a quiet sound of agreement. He accelerated hard, the truck surging forward, carrying us toward the city skyline.
Le Petit Chateau was aggressively upscale. Thick velvet ropes flanked the entrance. The windows were deeply tinted, guarding the exclusivity of the patrons inside. This was where the city’s elite came to display their wealth and secure their social standing.
Hayes pulled the truck to a halt right at the curb, waving off the valet who immediately stepped forward to take the vehicle. He shifted into park, left the engine idling, and stepped out onto the pavement with me.
I grabbed the thick stack of black envelopes from the seat, leaving the white gift box in the back. I wouldn’t need that until dessert.
Hayes stepped close, his large hands settling gently on my shoulders. He ignored the restaurant staff, his focus entirely on me.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Hayes asked quietly. “Once you put those envelopes on the table, your whole world changes. There is no taking it back.”
I looked up at his strong jaw, the dark scruff lining his cheek. I thought about the ruined lace of my wedding dress sitting in the backseat. I thought about Sylvia mocking my pregnant body, and Marcus kissing my temple before going upstairs to sleep with her.
“I don’t want to take it back,” I said, my voice steady and certain. “I’m ready.”
Hayes’s expression softened into something incredibly proud. He leaned down, pressing a firm, warm kiss to my forehead.
“I’ll be right out here,” he promised. “Call me the second it’s done.”
“I will,” I said.
He stepped back, letting me go. I turned and walked toward the restaurant. I didn’t need him to hold my hand to walk inside. He had already given me the strength I needed to finish it.
I pushed through the glass doors. The interior smelled of roasted garlic, expensive truffles, and old money. The main dining room was mostly empty, the staff frantically preparing for the dinner rush.
A tall man in a crisp suit rushed over to the host stand.
“Mrs. Russell?” the ma?tre d’ asked, his tone crisp and professional. He glanced down at the clipboard in his hand. “We spoke on the phone yesterday. Your mother’s party is in the private Bordeaux Room.”
“Yes, thank you,” I replied, offering him an entirely hollow smile.
“Your husband’s assistant dropped off the floral arrangements an hour ago,” he reported, gesturing toward a set of tall mahogany doors at the back of the restaurant. “We are setting the tables now.”
“Actually,” I interrupted, stepping slightly closer to him. “I brought the party favors. I need to place them at the seats myself. They are highly specific to the guest list.”
He hesitated, his professional demeanor cracking slightly. “Usually, my staff handles the placement of gifts, Mrs. Russell. It ensures uniformity.”
I didn’t blink. “These contain delicate, personalized items,” I stated. “I will place them. I just need ten minutes in the room. Alone.”
In the face of my confidence, the ma?tre d’ faltered. He nodded sharply, stepping aside and gesturing toward the mahogany doors. “Of course, Mrs. Russell. The room is yours.”
I walked past him, my flats silent against the patterned carpet. I pushed the doors open and stepped into the Bordeaux Room.
The space was suffocatingly elegant. Brilliant chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling.
A long table, draped in crisp white linen, dominated the center of the room.
Crystal glasses and pristine silver cutlery were aligned with geometric precision.
An arrangement of white orchids—the exact flowers Sylvia had ordered to match her dress—sat dead center.
I walked to the head of the table and looked down at the place card resting directly to the right of Sylvia’s seat.
Mr. Arthur Sanders.
I placed the black envelope squarely next to Mr. Sanders’s crystal glass. It looked like a black hole against the pristine white tablecloth.
Moving down the line, I placed an envelope next to the glass belonging to Marcus’s senior partner.
I placed one near the plate belonging to Sylvia’s wealthiest country club friend.
I methodically circled the table, distributing the glossy, high-definition evidence of their depravity to every single guest who possessed the power to destroy their reputations.
The repetitive action settled deep into my marrow. I wasn’t shaking. I wasn’t crying. I was a surgeon, and I was excising the tumor from my life.
I reached the final seat. Marcus’s chair.
I didn’t leave him an envelope. He didn’t need to see the photos. He already knew exactly what they looked like naked. His surprise was coming in the form of a legal document, delivered by a process server.
I stepped back from the table, ensuring I had a clear line of sight to every single seat.
The black envelopes rested squarely next to the crystal glasses. The trap was armed. There was no way to stop the chain reaction once the first seal was broken.
My ten minutes were up.
I turned my back on the table, walked out of the Bordeaux Room, and pulled the mahogany doors shut behind me.