Chapter 2 - The Woman Who Had Already Chosen My Bedroom
When I returned home, Vanessa was standing in my bedroom.
She was wearing my bathrobe.
Not one of Mark's shirts.
Not a spare robe from the guest bathroom.
Mine.
The pale blue silk robe my mother had given me for my thirtieth birthday.
Vanessa was standing in front of my mirror, gathering her blonde hair into a loose knot, as though she'd been living there for years.
For a moment, I simply watched her.
Then she noticed me in the reflection.
"Oh."
She turned.
"I thought you'd be out longer."
I looked at the robe.
"Take that off."
Vanessa blinked.
"Excuse me?"
"That's mine."
Her eyes moved toward the garment.
Then she smiled.
"Mark said you were taking your personal things."
"I am."
"Well, I assumed—"
"Take it off."
Something in my voice made her stop smiling.
She untied the belt, slipped the robe off over her dress, and dropped it on the bed.
"There. Happy?"
I picked it up.
"No."
For the first time, her expression hardened.
"Look, Claire, I understand this is embarrassing for you."
I almost laughed.
Embarrassing.
As though my husband bringing his mistress into our home was a social inconvenience.
As though I had spilled coffee on myself at a party.
Vanessa crossed her arms.
"Mark and I have been together for almost a year."
A year.
The words landed heavily.
While I'd been working late.
While I'd been attending my mother's medical appointments.
While I'd been reassuring Mark that his new promotion would be worth all the travel.
He had apparently been building another life.
"Thank you for telling me," I said.
Vanessa looked confused.
"For what?"
"For giving me a timeline."
I walked toward the dresser.
She stepped into my path.
"Mark thinks it would be best if you moved out today."
"Mark can discuss that with my attorney."
She laughed.
"An attorney?"
"Yes."
"Over a divorce?"
"Over several things."
Her smile thinned.
"You're making a mistake."
I studied her.
She was younger than me, perhaps twenty-nine.
Her makeup was perfect.
Her nails were immaculate.
She carried herself with the relaxed confidence of someone who believed the difficult part of winning was already over.
I wondered whether she had looked me up.
Whether she'd studied photographs of me.
Whether she'd stood beside Mark while he complained about the woman who worked too much, worried too much, and wasn't exciting enough anymore.
Then I remembered Daniel's phone call.
Forty-eight thousand dollars.
VHC Development Group.
Vanessa Cole.
"Do you work in real estate?" I asked.
The question caught her off guard.
"What?"
"Real estate development."
She hesitated.
"Why?"
"Just curious."
"I have several business interests."
"VHC Development Group?"
Her face changed.
Only for an instant.
But it was enough.
"How do you know about that?"
I looked at her.
"Shouldn't I?"
She recovered quickly.
"Mark must have mentioned it."
"He didn't."
"Well, I'm sure he meant to."
I said nothing.
Vanessa looked toward the doorway.
"Mark!"
My husband appeared several seconds later, carrying two coffee mugs.
He looked irritated before he even spoke.
"What's going on?"
"Claire's interrogating me."
Mark handed Vanessa a mug.
Then he turned toward me.
"I thought you were packing."
"I needed some documents."
"Which documents?"
"Mine."
He glanced at the open dresser drawer.
"Claire, we're trying to keep this civilized."
I looked at the woman wearing a diamond bracelet beside my husband.
"Of course."
Mark put his mug down.
"There's something else."
I waited.
"I've spoken with a realtor."
My heart slowed.
"A realtor?"
"We're going to list the house."
"You and Vanessa?"
"Don't be childish. I'm talking about the property."
I sat on the edge of the bed.
"You've already spoken with someone?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"Last week."
Last week.
Before he'd supposedly decided to end our marriage that morning.
He continued.
"The market's strong right now. We can sell quickly and settle everything."
"Settle what?"
"The house. The remaining debts. Whatever's left."
I looked at him.
"And where am I supposed to live?"
He shrugged.
"You're employed."
That was his answer.
Six years of marriage.
Fourteen years of knowing each other.
And the man I'd once held while he cried over losing his first management job couldn't even pretend to care whether I had somewhere to sleep.
I nodded.
"Send me the realtor's information."
His face brightened.
"Good. See? This doesn't have to get ugly."
I picked up my purse.
"One condition."
His smile faded.
"What?"
"No documents get signed until my lawyer reviews them."
Vanessa made a frustrated sound.
Mark stared at me.
"You're seriously hiring a lawyer?"
"Already did."
His jaw tightened.
"That seems unnecessary."
"Then you shouldn't have anything to worry about."
For a few seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Mark gave a dismissive laugh.
"Fine."
He stepped aside.
"Just don't expect me to pay for your legal fees."
I walked past him.
But before I reached the stairs, he called after me.
"And Claire?"
I turned.
"I hope you're not thinking you're entitled to half of everything I've built."
I looked at him for a long moment.
Then I answered quietly.
"I've been thinking the exact same thing."
His expression darkened.
But I didn't stay to explain.
Downstairs, I found the folders Rebecca had asked for.
Mortgage statements.
Tax returns.
The closing documents from when we purchased the house.
A folder containing the inheritance records from my grandmother's estate.
And the unsigned financing paperwork Mark had tried to rush me into approving.
I photographed everything before placing the originals I could lawfully take into a document case.
Then I opened our shared laptop.
Mark had once insisted that everything important be stored in one place.
It was easier that way, he'd said.
Better organization.
Fewer problems.
At the time, I'd believed him.
The laptop contained a folder named Household.
Inside were routine bills and scanned statements.
Nothing unusual.
Then I found another folder.
Future Plans.
It contained a spreadsheet.
The file was password protected.
I stared at the screen.
Mark had never password protected our ordinary household documents.
I looked at the file properties.
It had been created six months earlier.
The most recent modification was three days ago.
I took a photograph of the filename and metadata, leaving the file unopened.
I wasn't going to guess passwords or tamper with something my attorney might need to examine.
Instead, I opened my own email account and searched for the company's name Daniel had mentioned.
VHC Development Group.
No results.
I tried Vanessa Cole.
Nothing.
Then I searched for refinance.
An email appeared from five weeks earlier.
It was addressed to Mark, with me copied.
Subject: Additional Owner Authorization Required.
I didn't remember seeing it.
The message came from a mortgage brokerage.
It said the proposed transaction could not proceed without the required authorization from all property owners.
Below that was a brief reply from Mark.
Understood. Claire will sign when she returns from her mother's appointment.
My stomach turned.
I'd been taking Mom to physical therapy that day.
Mark had complained that I was spending too much time helping her.
Now I understood why he'd been so irritated.
I forwarded the email to Rebecca.
Then I checked the rest of the thread.
There was an attachment.
A preliminary loan application.
I opened it.
The proposed amount was $310,000.
The property listed as collateral was our home.
The stated purpose was business investment and consolidation.
And under anticipated recipient of investment funds was a name I now recognized.
VHC Development Group.
I read the document twice.
Then I lowered my head into my hands.
Mark hadn't simply been having an affair.
He'd been trying to turn our house into funding for his mistress's company.
The bedroom door opened upstairs.
I heard Vanessa laughing.
Then Mark said something I couldn't make out.
Their footsteps moved across the hallway.
I looked at the mortgage application again.
Three hundred and ten thousand dollars.
From our home.
For her business.
My phone vibrated.
Rebecca had replied to the forwarded email.
Do not sign anything. Please call me immediately.
I called her.
She answered on the first ring.
"Claire, where are you?"
"At the house."
"Is Mark there?"
"Yes."
"Are you safe?"
"I think so."
"Leave when you have what you need."
I looked toward the stairs.
"Rebecca, he tried to borrow three hundred and ten thousand dollars against our house."
"I saw."
"For Vanessa's company."
"I saw that too."
My throat tightened.
"What happens now?"
"First we verify whether the proposed loan ever closed."
I whispered, "It couldn't have. I didn't sign."
There was a pause.
Then Rebecca said, "That's exactly what I want to confirm."
I felt something cold move through me.
"Why?"
"Because there are two possibilities, Claire."
I waited.
"Either the lender refused to proceed without your approval..."
Her voice grew quieter.
"Or somebody may have submitted documents claiming they had it."
At that moment, I heard Mark coming downstairs.
I closed the laptop without shutting it down.
"Rebecca, I have to go."
"Claire?"
"Yes?"
"Do not confront him about the financing yet."
"Why not?"
"Because if something improper happened, we need the records preserved before anyone knows we're looking."
I ended the call.
Mark entered the living room.
He looked at the document case in my hands.
"What's that?"
"Paperwork."
"What kind?"
"Personal records."
He stared at me.
Then at the laptop.
"What have you been doing?"
I met his eyes.
"Getting organized."
His smile was gone.
"Claire, you better not be trying anything."
I considered the winning ticket in my purse.
The missing inheritance money.
The secret mortgage application.
And the woman upstairs who was already acting like she owned my home.
May you like
Then I smiled.
"Mark, I haven't even started."
