Chapter 5 - THE CHILD’S DRAWING
The security notification blinked on my phone screen: Motion detected in Home Office. 2:14 AM.
Gavin wasn't asleep. He was tearing through my private files.
“He’s looking for the trust documents,” I told my father. “He knows he needs my physical signature to completely sever the Wexler Trust’s legal hold over the logistics company before he flees.”
“Let him look,” my father said. “The original documents are in my vault. What does he hope to find in your home office?”
“My personal ledger,” I realized, panic spiking in my chest. “I kept a handwritten backup of the original corporate structure. If he destroys that, he can claim the company was solely his from the beginning.”
I couldn't let him destroy my proof.
I left my father’s estate and drove back to my house, parking my car down the street to avoid the driveway cameras. The house was mostly dark, but a faint light spilled from the second-floor window of my office.
I let myself in through the back patio door, moving silently through the kitchen. The house smelled faintly of Brielle’s heavy, expensive perfume.
I crept up the carpeted stairs, my heart pounding in my ears.
When I reached the doorway of my office, I peeked inside. Gavin was frantically tearing through the drawers of my oak desk. Documents were scattered across the floor. He looked frantic, sweating profusely, completely stripped of his arrogant composure.
He didn't find the ledger. He cursed, slamming the drawer shut, and rushed out of the room toward the master bedroom.
I waited until I heard the bedroom door close, then I slipped into the office.
I dropped to my knees and pried up the loose floorboard beneath the window seat. My leather-bound ledger was still there, safely hidden. I grabbed it, hugging it to my chest.
As I stood up, my foot brushed against something Gavin had knocked out of my bottom drawer during his frantic search.
It was a piece of crumpled construction paper.
I picked it up. It was a child’s drawing in bright, messy crayons. It showed a tall man holding hands with a little boy. Above the figures, written in clumsy, blocky letters, were the words: Happy Birthday Daddy.
The date scribbled in the corner by an adult's hand was from four years ago.
I stared at the drawing, the air leaving my lungs in a rush.
Gavin and I didn't have children. We had struggled with infertility for six years, a failure Gavin constantly used to make me feel inadequate.
But Gavin had a son. A son who was at least four years old.
Reversal.
Brielle wasn't a new mistress. She hadn't entered our lives eight months ago. She had been there for years. Gavin had built an entire parallel family while I was sitting in waiting rooms, crying over negative pregnancy tests, believing my body was failing our marriage.
A sudden, sharp hatred burned through my veins, incinerating whatever lingering sadness I had left.
I folded the drawing and slipped it into my pocket.
“Elena?”
I froze. Brielle was standing in the doorway of the office, wearing my silk robe. She looked sleepy, holding a glass of water, but her eyes sharpened when she saw me.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded. “Gavin said you were gone.”
“I came for my things,” I said, my voice completely devoid of emotion.
Brielle smirked, leaning against the doorframe. “Well, hurry up. And leave the key on the counter like he asked. This is my house now.”
I looked at the woman wearing my robe, sleeping with my husband, raising his secret child, and wearing my dead mother’s jewelry.
May you like
“Enjoy it while it lasts, Brielle,” I said softly.
I walked past her, my shoulder brushing hers, and left the house for the final time.
