9. Cassie
— ? —
Cassie
Elliot drives me home in a car that costs more than my parents’ house.
It’s sleek and black and silent, all leather and chrome, a vehicle that announces its driver’s wealth without saying a word. He drives the way he does everything else, controlled, precise, economical. No wasted movement, no unnecessary conversation.
Charles’s phone sits in my purse like a grenade with the pin pulled. I keep touching it, reassuring myself it’s still there, that this whole surreal day actually happened.
We don’t talk much. I’m too busy rehearsing what I’m going to say to Charles, running through scenarios in my head, trying to predict how he’ll react. Will he beg? Threaten? Try to gaslight me into believing I imagined what I saw?
It doesn’t matter. I have the evidence. I have a plan. And I have Elliot Beaumont waiting in the driveway like a trump card I’m dying to play.
When we pull up to the house, my stomach flips. Charles’s car is already there, parked at an angle that suggests he practically flew home the moment he could walk again.
“I’ll wait here,” Elliot says. It’s not a question.
I nod and get out of the car.
The walk to my front door feels like a mile. This house, the house Charles bought before we got married, the house I spent five years decorating and maintaining and trying to turn into a home, suddenly looks like a stranger’s. Like somewhere I used to live a long time ago, in a different life.
I don’t bother knocking. It’s still technically my house too.
Charles is pacing the living room like a caged animal, his hair wild, his shirt untucked, a frantic energy radiating from every movement. He spins when he hears the door, and the relief on his face makes my stomach turn.
“Cassie, thank God.” He moves toward me, arms outstretched like he’s going to pull me into a hug. “Baby, we need to talk. I can explain, I swear, it’s not, it’s not what you think.”
“Where’s your phone, Charles?”
He freezes, and I watch the relief curdle into fear as he remembers that I walked out of his office with it.
“I need that back.” His voice is strained, too high. “There are important, work stuff, client info.”
“Is Bunny a client?” I tilt my head, letting my voice drip with sweetness. “Are those work photos she’s been sending you?”
His face goes through about six different emotions in three seconds: shock, fear, anger, desperation, calculation, and finally something that looks almost like pleading.
“It was a mistake,” he says. “A stupid mistake. I’ll fire her, I’ll never see her again, I’ll do whatever you want. Just please, can we sit down? Talk about this like adults?”
“You’ve been fucking her for months.”
“It didn’t mean anything.”
“You told her our marriage was over.”
“I was just, I was just saying what she wanted to hear.” He steps closer, reaching for me. “It’s you I love, Cass. It’s always been you. She was nothing. A distraction. I was weak, and I’m sorry, but we can work through this. Therapy, counseling, whatever you want.”
I walk past him toward the kitchen.
He follows, still talking, still making excuses, his voice getting higher and more desperate with every step. I tune him out. I’ve heard enough lies to last a lifetime.
In the kitchen, I pull his phone from my purse and hold it up where he can see it.
“I already have copies of everything,” I say conversationally. “Screenshots. Sent them to myself in the elevator. Backed up in three places. So even if you got this back, it wouldn’t matter.”
His face goes gray. “You can’t, that’s private, you can’t just…”
“Private?” I laugh. “We’re married, Charles. Remember? For better or worse? Forsaking all others?” I let each phrase land like a slap. “Nothing between us is private. That’s what you promised.”
“Cassie, please.”
I open the dishwasher. It’s half-full of breakfast dishes, the remnants of this morning when I still thought I might salvage my marriage with a surprise lunch date.
I set his phone inside, nestled between a coffee mug and a cereal bowl.
“What are you doing?” His voice pitches up to a shriek. “Cassie, that phone cost three thousand dollars!”
I add detergent, close the door, and press start.
The look on his face is almost worth everything. His mouth hangs open, his eyes bulging, watching me destroy his phone with the same horror he might show watching me burn cash.
“Cassie, what the FUCK!”
He lunges for the dishwasher, but I step in front of it, blocking him.
“I’m going upstairs to pack,” I say calmly. “Don’t follow me unless you want to lose something else.”
I walk past him and head for the stairs. He grabs my arm, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks, and I spin on him with a snarl.
“Let. Go.”
Something in my face makes him release me instantly. He actually steps back, hands up, like I’m a wild animal he’s just realized might bite.
Smart man. First smart thing he’s done in months.
Packing takes less time than I expected. Five years of marriage, and most of what I accumulated means nothing to me now. The furniture Charles picked without asking. The art his mother insisted on. The decorative crap that was supposed to make this place feel like a home but never did.
I take clothes, toiletries, my grandmother’s jewelry, my laptop, the things that are actually mine.
He hovers in the doorway the whole time, alternating between threats and pleas.
“You’ll never survive without me. Where are you gonna go? You don’t have any money, you don’t have a job.”
“Actually, I have both.” I zip my suitcase. “New job starts Monday.”
“What? Where? Who would, who would hire you without.” He stops. His face contorts. “No. No fucking way.”
I drag my suitcase toward the door. He blocks me, and for a second I think he might try to stop me physically.
“Move.”
“Cassie, please. I love you. I know I fucked up, but we can fix this.”
“Move, Charles.”
Something in my voice finally gets through. He steps aside, and I drag my suitcase past him, down the stairs, through the living room, past the kitchen where his phone is getting a thorough wash.
At the front door, I turn back one last time.
“I want a divorce,” I say. “My lawyer will be in touch.”
The sound that comes out of him is barely human, half grief, half rage, the howl of a man watching everything slip through his fingers.
I walk out without looking back.
The sun is bright, offensively cheerful for a day when my whole life has fallen apart. Elliot is leaning against his car, arms crossed, watching the house with something like amusement.
I’m halfway down the driveway when I hear Charles behind me.
“Cassie, wait! We can work this out! I’ll do anything.”
He stumbles onto the porch and freezes.
I watch his face as he registers Elliot. Watch the color drain from his cheeks as he recognizes the man he’s been obsessing over for weeks. Watch every ounce of desperate pleading transform into impotent rage.
“What the fuck is HE doing here?”
“Giving me a ride.” I keep walking. “I have somewhere to stay.”
“You’re going with HIM?” His voice cracks. “You’re leaving me for BEAUMONT?”
Elliot pushes off the car and takes my suitcase, loading it into the trunk without once looking at Charles. Without acknowledging him at all. To Elliot, my husband might as well be invisible.
“You can’t do this!” Charles is scrambling down the steps now. “Do you know what people will say? How this will look?”
I open the passenger door and look back at him.
Charles Wallace. My husband of five years. The man who promised to love me forever and then broke every vow while I sat home going crazy trying to figure out what was wrong with me.
“Goodbye, Charles.” I slide into the car. “My lawyer will be in touch.”
Elliot gets in beside me. The engine purrs to life, and we pull away with smooth, unhurried grace.
In the rearview mirror, I watch Charles standing alone in the driveway, fists clenched, face twisted with fury.
Good. Let him rage.
I’m done being afraid of him.
“Where to now?” I ask, even though I already know.
Elliot’s smile is sharp. “My place.” His eyes meet mine, and there’s warmth there I didn’t expect. “Where Celine has no idea what’s about to hit her.”
I settle into the leather seat and watch the city blur past.
For the first time since this nightmare began, I let myself feel something other than rage or grief.
It’s hope, fragile and uncertain and brand new.
And the fierce, burning certainty that the best revenge is living well, and making damn sure they watch every second of it.