Chapter 2 - The Morning After
The light that filtered through the blinds at 6:00 AM on January 1st was grey, cold, and unyielding. The cheerful noise of the previous night had vanished, leaving behind the stale smell of spilled cider, wilted flowers, and dried champagne.
I hadn't slept a single minute.
By 6:30 AM, Clara was fed, swaddled, and resting in her portable bassinet. Liam was still fast asleep in his room, exhausted from his ordeal. I dressed in a dark grey wool sweater, dark jeans, and boots, pulling my hair back into a clean, tight bun. I looked tired, yes, but the woman who had spent months second-guessing her own sanity was no longer in the mirror.
I unlocked the bedroom door and walked downstairs.
The living room was a disaster zone. Used paper plates, empty glasses, and crumpled napkins littered the mahogany coffee table. On the kitchen island sat three open bottles of expensive vintage champagne—the ones Sloane had brought.
Cameron was sitting at the kitchen counter, dressed in a pristine navy suit, his laptop open in front of him, a steaming cup of black coffee at his elbow. He looked completely unbothered, as though the previous night had been nothing more than a minor administrative hiccup.
He didn't look up when I entered.
“I have a breakfast meeting with Sloane and the regional directors at eight,” he said, typing away on his keyboard. “We’re finalizing the prospectus for the Mercer-Vance merger. I expect you to have the living room cleaned up before the cleaning crew arrives at noon.”
I walked over to the coffee maker, poured myself a cup, and stood leaning against the opposite counter, watching him.
“Did you hear me, Dahlia?” he asked, finally looking up. His eyes were cold, calculating. “I know you had a little episode last night, but we have a business to run. I suggest you apologize to Sloane when she picks me up in twenty minutes.”
“Sloane is picking you up?” I asked mildly.
“Yes. My car has a minor engine light issue.”
“Your car doesn't have an engine light issue, Cameron. I took your keys off the hallway hook at two in the morning and hid them.”
Cameron froze. He slowly closed his laptop lid. “What did you just say?”
“I said you’re not taking your car anywhere today. In fact, you’re not taking anything that belongs to the marital estate until my forensic accountant reviews the accounts.”
Cameron’s face hardened into a mask of pure disbelief, followed quickly by a sneer. “Forensic accountant? Dahlia, what delusional fairy tale are you playing out right now? You don't have an accountant. You haven't worked in three years. You don't even have an income.”
“I have my grandfather’s trust,” I said softly.
The color drained from Cameron’s lips.
He had forgotten. Or rather, he had convinced himself over six years of marriage that because I had stepped back from my corporate career to raise our children, I was entirely dependent on his salary as senior partner at Vance & Mercer Logistics. He had forgotten that my late grandfather, Arthur Vance, had established a private family trust for me that was completely separate from marital property—a trust managed by my great-aunt, Evelyn Vance, one of the most feared corporate litigators in the state of California.
“You didn't...” Cameron stammered, standing up so fast his barstool scraped loudly against the tile floor. “You called Evelyn?”
“I called her at 12:05 AM,” I said, taking a slow sip of my coffee. “She’s arriving here at seven-thirty with her senior associate. Along with a formal petition for temporary emergency custody, an order for exclusive use of the marital residence, and an emergency motion to freeze all joint accounts pending an audit.”
“You’re insane!” Cameron slammed his palm onto the marble counter. “Over a fucking New Year’s countdown?! Over a five-year-old having a tantrum because he was tired?!”
“It was never about the countdown, Cameron,” I said, my voice deadly level. “The countdown was just the moment you showed me exactly who you are. You broke our son’s heart to flatter your mistress.”
“She is not my mistress!” Cameron bellowed.
“She carries a key to our private guest house,” I replied coldly, pulling a silver key on a leather strap from my pocket and setting it on the island between us. “I found this in the side pocket of your laptop bag while you were sleeping off your champagne on the sofa last night. The same guest house where our financial records are stored.”
Cameron stared at the key. His chest rose and fell rapidly. For the first time since I had met him, I saw genuine panic flicker behind his calculated eyes.
A heavy knock sounded at the front door.
It was exactly 7:30 AM.
I didn't move. “That will be Aunt Evelyn.”
Cameron took two steps toward the front hallway, but the front door opened before he reached it. Aunt Evelyn stepped inside, wrapped in an elegant dark wool coat, her silver hair pulled into a severe chignon. Beside her was a tall, sharp-looking man carrying a thick leather briefcase—Julian Thorne, the head of family law at Vance & Vance.
May you like
Evelyn swept her sharp blue eyes across the messy living room, taking in the empty champagne bottles, the crumpled paper crowns, and finally, Cameron standing frozen in the kitchen corridor.
“Good morning, Cameron,” Evelyn said, her voice like cut glass. “Happy New Year. We have a great deal of paperwork to go over.”
