Chapter 9 - THE NIGHT THE PENTHOUSE BECAME A BATTLEFIELD
Oliver arrived at the penthouse shortly after midnight.
Loretta was waiting in the study.
Her mother's bracelet lay inside its velvet box beside a copy of the appraisal and a letter from Daniel.
Oliver entered without knocking.
"What the hell was that?"
Loretta looked up from her papers.
"Good evening."
"Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Act as though you haven't just destroyed my reputation."
She closed the folder.
"Your reputation was not mine to destroy."
Oliver laughed sharply.
"You planned that."
"Yes."
The admission stopped him.
He had expected denial.
Or tears.
Or an explanation he could argue against.
Instead, Loretta sat beneath her mother's portrait and looked entirely certain of herself.
"How long have you known?"
"Long enough."
"Did you go through my emails?"
"I found a voicemail you accidentally left on my phone. I subsequently found messages on our shared tablet."
Oliver stared.
"So you've been spying on me."
Loretta felt something inside her become very quiet.
"Oliver, you took jewelry from my safe and gave it to another woman."
"It was a bracelet."
"It was my mother's bracelet."
"You never wore it."
"That did not make it yours."
He began pacing.
"You have no idea how difficult it has been living in this house."
Loretta almost laughed.
The house.
Her mother's house.
The apartment Oliver had entered carrying two suitcases and a collection of expensive opinions.
"Explain."
Oliver turned.
"What?"
"Explain how difficult it has been."
He stared at her.
"Everything here belongs to you. The apartment. The foundation. The family name. Everywhere I go, I'm Margaret Hartwell's son-in-law."
Loretta studied him.
"You knew who I was when you married me."
"I thought we would build something together."
"We did."
"No. You inherited everything, and I was expected to be grateful for whatever position you gave me."
She felt a sudden clarity.
The resentment had been there all along.
In the jokes about her mother's portrait.
In the complaints about foundation traditions.
In the way Oliver introduced himself as the man who modernized the Hartwell legacy.
He had not wanted to share her life.
He had wanted to replace it.
"And Camille?" she asked.
Oliver looked away.
"She understands me."
Loretta nodded.
"Then you should have no difficulty building a life with her."
His expression changed.
"You can't be serious."
"I've instructed Daniel to prepare divorce papers."
Oliver went still.
"You're divorcing me?"
"Yes."
"Over an affair?"
"Over betrayal, dishonesty, and the theft of property. The financial investigation is a separate matter."
He stepped closer.
"You're making a mistake."
Loretta stood.
"Please leave."
"This is my home."
"Your attorney can discuss your legal rights with mine. Tonight, I am asking you to leave voluntarily."
He stared at her.
"You think you can erase eleven years?"
"No."
She looked toward her mother's photograph.
"I think I can stop giving you another eleven."
Oliver grabbed his coat.
At the doorway, he turned.
"You'll regret humiliating me."
Loretta did not answer.
The private elevator closed.
Only then did she sit down.
Her hands began trembling.
She opened the velvet box.
The emeralds caught the lamplight.
For a moment, she could almost see Margaret fastening the bracelet around her wrist.
And then Loretta cried.
Not for Oliver.
Not for Camille.
For the mother she missed.
May you like
For the years she could not recover.
And for the woman she had become while trying so hard to keep a marriage alive.
