Chapter 1

1.

The buzz of a notification on my iPhone made my hand tremble. The ultrasound probe slid across my belly, leaving a trail of warm gel.

"Easy there, Mrs. Chase," Dr. Rodriguez said with a smile, pointing to the screen. "The babies are perfectly healthy. See? There are their heartbeats."

I stared at the two tiny, flickering lights on the screen, and tears welled in my eyes. For six months, two little lives had been growing inside me, while their father…

Another buzz.

I glanced at my phone screen―seventeen Twitter notifications.

They weren't well wishes. It was a TikTok video, and it was going viral.

"@ClaireChaseVanderbilt Your husband's new girlfriend has great taste in jewelry ?? #OldMoneyChallenge"

My heart stopped.

"Mrs. Chase?" The doctor looked at me with concern. "Are you alright? You've gone a bit pale."

"I'm fine," I lied, my finger already tapping on the video.

The screen showed a woman's hand, drumming lightly on a steering wheel. On her wrist, a bracelet shimmered in the sunlight.

That fucking Vanderbilt heirloom bracelet.

The one Julian was supposed to place on my wrist himself at the family's annual gala.

In the background, I could hear his laugh. "Careful, babe. That gold is from 1882."

I felt sick to my stomach―and not from the pregnancy.

The video already had 2.5 million views, and the comment section was a dumpster fire.

@NYCSocietyWatcher: "Wait, isn't that bracelet supposed to be on Claire Chase-Vanderbilt's wrist?"

@TruthSeeker2024: "Someone should check if Julian Vanderbilt filed FBARs for those Cayman accounts."

@LawyerUp: "New York Domestic Relations Law § 236 just entered the chat."

My trembling finger swiped over to Instagram.

Julian had posted a story twenty-two minutes ago: a picture of a boardroom with the caption, "Dealing with an SEC inquiry. It's going to be a long night."

The TikTok was uploaded twenty-one minutes ago.

He was lying.

"Mrs. Chase, are you sure you're okay?" Dr. Rodriguez had turned off the ultrasound machine and was handing me a paper towel to wipe the gel off my stomach. "Your blood pressure is a little high."

"I need to make a call." I sat up on the examination table and practically fled the room.

In the hallway, I leaned against the wall, took three deep breaths, and dialed Mike Rossi. He was my old colleague from the Department of Justice, now one of the best divorce attorneys in Manhattan.

"Claire?" he answered, his voice surprised. "What's wrong?"

"I need you to do something for me," I said, my voice eerily calm. "I want a full trace on all of Julian's accounts for the last twenty-four months. Focus on offshore corporations in the Cayman Islands and Delaware."

There was a two-second pause.

"Jesus, Claire. What happened?"

"I'm sending you the evidence now." I screenshotted the TikTok. "New York Domestic Relations Law, Section 236. Equitable distribution. If he's been moving marital assets, I want him to pay."

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Mike's tone turned serious. "Once we start this process, there's no going back."

"I'm sure," I said. "Also, get me a private investigator. I want to know who this woman is and how deep this goes with Julian."

After hanging up, I texted my brother, Cameron.

"Cam, I need your data team. Now."

He replied instantly: "Say no more. I'm on it."

I walked towards the parking garage. The valet brought my Tesla Model X around from the P3 level. My hands were shaking too much to even grip the steering wheel.

"Where to, ma'am?" the driver asked.

"The Hamptons," I said, giving him the address to our estate, then added, "And step on it."

As the car sped onto the FDR Drive, the Manhattan skyline shrank in the rearview mirror.

Three years ago, I moved here from Palo Alto with boxes of my Stanford notes and a head full of fantasies about East Coast old-money romance.

Julian had taken me to The Loeb Boathouse in Central Park on our first date and proposed on one knee by the lake. "Claire," he'd said, "you're everything I've been looking for. Silicon Valley brilliance meets East Coast tradition. We're going to build something incredible together."

I believed him.

I fucking believed him.

As we crossed the Queensboro Bridge, my phone rang again. It was my OB-GYN's office.

"Mrs. Chase, Dr. Rodriguez asked me to call. She's concerned about your blood pressure and recommends you get some rest tonight and come back for another check-up tomorrow."

"I will," I said. "Thank you for your concern."

But I wasn't going to rest.

I was going to the Hamptons to change all the locks.

Under New York Real Property Law § 235, the Hamptons house was marital property. During a divorce proceeding, I had every right to protect my interests.

I sent a text to our house manager, Robert.

"Robert, please have all staff leave the house tonight. A locksmith will be arriving tomorrow morning. Their salaries will be paid for the month, but they may need to find new employment for the next few weeks."

He replied quickly: "Understood, Mrs. Vanderbilt. I'm very sorry for what's happening."

Even the butler knew.

The entire Hamptons social circle probably knew by now.

Outside the car window, the Long Island scenery flew by. The autumn leaves were starting to turn, and the sky was that classic, dreary East Coast blue.

I took one last look at the video on my phone.

The hand wearing my family heirloom, the woman I had never seen before, the person Julian called "babe."

I shut off the screen and closed my eyes.

Tomorrow, the war would begin.

And I never go into a battle unprepared.

After all, I am Claire Chase―Stanford, Computer Science. Harvard Law School, Juris Doctor. Former prosecutor for the DOJ's Antitrust Division.

Julian Vanderbilt thought he married a docile Silicon Valley trophy wife.

He was wrong.

He married the woman who knew exactly how to destroy him.