Chapter 3 - Entitlement Without Limits
By Tuesday afternoon, the penthouse had transformed into an absolute warzone.
Chloe had arrived two days early, accompanied by her two sons, Mason, eight, and Jaden, six. They hadn't even waited for the weekend. The moment Wade gave them the green light, Chloe had backed a battered rental truck into the private driveway of Riverview Tower, completely blocking the building's resident drop-off lane.
"Aunt Ivy!" Mason screamed, tearing past me at the front door while brandishing a sticky red ice pop.
Before I could say a single word, he slammed his dirty hands directly against the raw silk wallpaper in the foyer, leaving two crimson handprints on the $300-a-roll imported fabric. Behind him, Jaden dropped a heavy plastic scooter onto the polished white-oak floors, gouging a deep, six-inch scratch into the wood.
"Oops!" Chloe laughed, stepping through the doorway wearing oversized sunglasses and dragging two mud-caked suitcases. She dropped them in the center of the foyer and immediately collapsed onto the sectional sofa, kicking off her flip-flops. "God, the traffic from Queens was brutal. Ivy, grab those other bags from the hallway, would you? And pour me a glass of that expensive white wine you keep in the cooler. I am completely parched."
I stood by the doorway, holding Leo tightly in a front-facing carrier against my chest. My compression wrap supported my core, but the sheer chaos of noise caused a dull throb to pulse behind my temples.
"Chloe," I said calmly, "the doorman specifically asked that all luggage be brought up through the service elevator."
Chloe waved a hand through the air, her face twisting in irritation. "Oh, please. That old guy at the desk has a stick up his rear. Wade told me this building treats him like royalty. We don't need to use the service elevator like common laborers."
Roberta emerged from the guest suite, wearing a silk robe I had purchased in Paris two years ago—one she had taken from my closet without asking.
"Chloe, darling!" Roberta beamed, opening her arms wide. "Look at this magnificent place! Didn't I tell you? My Wade really outdid himself. You and the boys are going to love living here."
"It's about time Wade stepped up for this family," Chloe said, casting a critical eye around the living room. "Though honestly, the decor is a little sterile. Too much white. Don't worry, Mom, once we throw out Ivy's architectural junk from the office, I’m turning it into a gorgeous bohemian suite. I already ordered a velvet sectional on Wade’s credit card."
I watched them, saying nothing. I didn't yell. I didn't cry. I simply pulled out my phone and took a quick, subtle video of the gouged floor, the stained silk wallpaper, and Chloe's suitcases blocking the fire safety path.
Every single scratch was being logged. Every single insult was being compiled.
An hour later, I was in the kitchen preparing a simple broth for myself when my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a secure text message from Frank Miller, the private investigator.
*Frank: Check your encrypted email. You aren't going to believe what your husband has been up to.*
My heart skipped a beat. Keeping one eye on Roberta and Chloe, who were currently in the living room taking selfies with the skyline view to post on Instagram with the caption *#Blessed #FamilyEmpire #MyBrothersPenthouse*, I slipped into the guest bathroom, locked the door, and opened the PDF report Frank had sent.
What I read made the blood freeze in my veins.
Wade hadn't just been spending out of the joint household account. Over the past fourteen months, he had systematically drained over $240,000 from the fund I kept stocked for home maintenance and taxes.
Where had the money gone?
* $65,000 had been wired directly to an offshore auto-dealership to purchase a brand-new Mercedes-Benz SUV—registered solely in Roberta’s name for her "retirement gift."
* $45,000 had paid off Chloe’s delinquent personal loans and credit card debt.
* $80,000 had been transferred to a shell company named "Apex Horizon Holdings."
Frank’s notes below the bank records explained the rest:
*Apex Horizon Holdings is not an investment fund. It is a shell company registered to a 26-year-old junior marketing coordinator at Wade’s logistics firm named Sarah Jenkins. Attached are photographs taken over the past three weeks.*
I scrolled down.
The screen illuminated half a dozen high-resolution photographs. There was Wade, sitting at a candlelit table at an ultra-exclusive rooftop restaurant downtown—a restaurant where I had been trying to get a reservation for our anniversary before I got pregnant. He was leaning across the table, his fingers laced through those of a pretty, blonde woman with bright blue eyes.
The next photo showed them kissing passionately against the side of his car in a hotel parking garage.
The final photo was a receipt from a luxury boutique hotel in Soho, dated four days ago—the exact night I had spent weeping in agony from surgical complications while Leo screamed for five hours straight. Wade had texted me that night claiming he was "stuck at the office doing an all-night corporate audit."
He hadn't been working. He had been sleeping in a five-star hotel suite with his mistress, funded entirely by my bank account.
And beneath the hotel receipt was an email Frank had intercepted between Wade and his mistress:
*Don't worry, baby,* Wade had written to Sarah just yesterday morning. *The quitclaim deed is already drafted. Ivy is completely broken right now. She’s too exhausted to read the fine print. Once she signs the deed and the power of attorney this week, the penthouse will be half mine legally. Within six months, I’ll file for divorce, cite postpartum depression to take full custody of the kid, force a sale of the property, and cash out with at least $1.5 million. Then you and I can buy that beach house in Miami.*
A cold, terrifying calm settled over me.
The pain in my surgical wound completely vanished, replaced by an adrenaline surge so powerful it made my hands rock-steady.
They didn't just want my hospitality. They didn't just want my money.
They wanted to destroy me completely. Wade intended to strip me of my home, steal my newborn son, and hand the fruits of my eight years of brutal labor to his mother, his leech of a sister, and his twenty-six-year-old mistress.
I looked at the bathroom mirror. The trembling, fragile girl who had wept into a soaked pillow three days ago was dead.
I saved the files to three separate cloud drives, forwarded the entire dossier to Maya, and typed a quick message:
*Me: Maya. Initiate Phase Two. We aren't just evicting them. I want criminal charges.*
*Maya: I have the district attorney’s office looking at the domestic violence report from Saturday. With the medical documentation of the water incident and this financial fraud? Wade is looking at grand larceny. When do you want to drop the hammer?*
*Me: Sunday. Wade is hosting a dinner party to celebrate his 'promotion.' He invited his managing partners, his mother’s church friends, and the whole family.*
*Maya: A dinner party? Ivy, that’s bold.*
*Me: Let him gather everyone he wants to impress in one room. It'll save us the trouble of delivering the news door to door.*
I put the phone back in my pocket, washed my hands with warm water, straightened my linen shirt, and unlocked the bathroom door.
As I stepped out, Wade was walking through the front door, carrying a sleek black leather briefcase. He looked handsome, polished, and full of unearned swagger.
"Hey, babe," he called out, loosening his tie as Chloe and Roberta rushed over to fawn over him like a returning king. "Did you look over those documents I left on your desk?"
I smiled at him—a soft, compliant, radiant smile that never reached my eyes.
"Not yet, darling," I said smoothly. "I wanted to wait until after your big celebration dinner on Sunday. You deserve all our focus right now. Let’s celebrate your promotion first, and then... we’ll sign everything together."
May you like
Wade’s eyes lit up with predatory greed. "Now that sounds like a plan."
***
