Chapter 1 - The Gala Breakdown
By the time twenty-two-year-old Jenna Lane asked my husband to take off her shoe and rub her ankle in front of nearly four hundred employees, I had already heard enough “Daddy” jokes to last a lifetime. What I had not expected was to watch my husband kneel at her feet at our company’s annual gala while half the room stared at me with pity.
“Daddy, it hurts,” Jenna whimpered from the edge of the stage, her voice amplified by the quiet room.
My husband, Scott Bennett, crouched beside her in his tailored tuxedo. “You need to be more careful, Jenna.”
Then he slipped off her high heel and began gently massaging her ankle.
The ballroom went so quiet I could hear silverware touching china three tables away.
Jenna looked over Scott’s shoulder and found me sitting at the head table. A tiny, victorious smile touched her lips. “Mrs. Bennett, please don’t misunderstand. Daddy’s just used to taking care of me.” She reached down and ran her manicured fingers through his hair.
That was when several board members looked away in embarrassment.
I didn't.
For eight years, I had been Scott’s wife. For twelve, I had been the founder and majority owner of Northstar Systems, the software empire whose logo hung twenty feet high behind that very stage. I had spent the previous year mostly away from the daily operations after a high-risk pregnancy and the birth of our son, Ethan.
During that year, I had allowed Scott to serve as interim CEO. Apparently, he had mistaken temporary authority for true ownership.
When I stood up and applauded three times, the sharp sound echoed through the high-ceilinged room. Scott froze.
“Mr. Bennett is simply showing concern for an intern,” I said, my voice smooth and pleasant. “We shouldn’t let that interrupt the evening. Please, carry on.”
Twenty minutes later, in the marble restroom, Jenna cornered me. Gone was the helpless girl; in her place was a predatory smile. She dropped a crumpled condom wrapper onto the counter. “From his office desk last night,” she whispered, leaning in so I could smell her heavy jasmine perfume—the same scent I’d caught on Scott’s collars for months. “He says being married to you feels like another dull meeting on his calendar.”
When sales director Rachel Morgan pulled me into the hallway moments later, she showed me the company’s internal gossip channel. There were photos of Jenna wearing Scott’s dress shirt in his corner office, and a crystal-clear audio recording of Jenna saying: “Once Daddy divorces that old woman, Northstar will basically be mine.”
I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I handed Rachel her phone back and made three calls: to our General Counsel, my executive assistant, and corporate security.
Then I walked onto the main stage, picked up the microphone, and smiled at the crowd.
May you like
“Good evening, everyone,” I announced as Scott turned pale beside the stage. “Before we close tonight, there has been a slight change in the program.”
Behind me, the giant presentation screen went pitch black. Scott stopped breathing. On the screen, the first corporate bank statement appeared in full high-definition clarity.
