Chapter 2

By ten p.m., I was standing in the master bedroom of our Hamptons estate, a pile of documents spread out before me.

Bank statements, trust fund documents, property deeds, Julian's corporate equity agreements, and the things he thought I didn't know about: three shell companies in Delaware, an offshore account in the Cayman Islands, and seven million dollars he'd moved last year.

My private investigator was fast. He had sent back a preliminary report within two hours.

The woman's name was Emily Carrington. At least, that's what she called herself now.

Five years ago, she was Emily Brown, an escort in Las Vegas. She had a four-year-old son, Toby, who she claimed was Julian's―a fact that still needed verification.

Last year, Emily moved into a two-bedroom apartment on the Upper West Side with a monthly rent of twelve thousand dollars. The payer: Julian Vanderbilt, funneled through his "investment advisory firm."

Toby attended The Dalton School, with an annual tuition of fifty-eight thousand dollars.

The payer: Julian, again.

I photographed each document, uploaded them to an encrypted cloud drive, and sent them to Mike.

"This is a textbook RICO case waiting to happen," I wrote in the text. "He's using marital assets to support a mistress and an illegitimate child. Also, please prepare an IRS Form 3949-A, a tax fraud referral."

Mike replied instantly: "Jesus, Claire. Are you serious?"

"Deadly serious. I want you and your team here at ten a.m. tomorrow. Bring a draft of the divorce agreement. I want a 60/40 asset split in my favor―the maximum allowed under New York state law."

"Roger that."

I walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows and stared out at the Atlantic. The moonlight glittered on the waves. I used to find this view heartbreakingly romantic.

Now, it was just cold, dark water.

At three a.m., the sound of an engine broke the silence.

Julian was back.

I didn't turn on the lights. I just sat on the sofa in the master bedroom, the divorce agreement laid out neatly on the coffee table in front of me.

The door opened. Julian appeared in the doorway, clearly surprised to find me awake. He froze.

"Claire? You're still up?" He loosened his Hermès tie. "Pregnant women should get their rest. Didn't the doctor say―"

"Where's your wedding ring?"

My voice, calm and cold, cut through the darkness.

Julian instinctively shoved his left hand into his pocket, but it was too late.

"The gym. I took it off when I was at Equinox and forgot it in the locker."

"Really?" I stood up, walked over to him, and shoved my iPhone in his face. "Because as far as I know, the Hamptons Country Club charity auction doesn't have a gym. Or was your 'emergency SEC meeting' held at a fundraiser?"

The screen glowed with that goddamn TikTok, its view count now soaring past four million.

The color drained from Julian's face.

"Claire, listen to me―"

"Listen to what?" I interrupted, my voice rising. "Listen to you explain how you gave my family's heirloom bracelet to your mistress? Or how you've been sleeping with her while I'm carrying your children?"

"It's not―she's not―" He stammered. "It's complicated. I need time to handle this―"

"Let me save you some time."

I turned, picked up the divorce agreement from the coffee table, and threw it at his feet.

"Sign it. Mike will be here at ten a.m. to notarize it."

Julian bent down, picked up the papers, and his face grew paler as he read the first page.

"Are you insane? Sixty percent of my assets? The Vanderbilt Foundation board seat? The Hamptons house?" His voice began to tremble. "You can't―"

"I can, and I will," I said calmly. "New York is an equitable distribution state. Given your fraudulent transfer of marital assets and concealment of offshore accounts during our marriage, sixty percent is me being generous. Or would you prefer we go to court? Let a judge see how you've been funneling money through Delaware shell companies to the Cayman Islands for the past year?"

"You've been spying on me?"

"No, I've been protecting my assets," I corrected him. "New York Domestic Relations Law allows a spouse to take necessary investigative measures when they suspect the other is dissipating assets. Your lawyers at Cravath should have told you that."

The hand holding the papers began to shake.

"The twins..." he choked out. "They're mine."

"Yes, they are," I said. "But under New York Family Law § 240, I get sole custody. You'll receive a bill every month―child support calculated at twenty-five percent of your annual income, per the New York State guidelines. Plus medical and educational expenses. Of course, if you'd like to waive your visitation rights, we can renegotiate."

"Claire―"

"I'm tired," I cut him off. "You can sleep in the guest room. Or you can go back to your 'investment property' on the Upper West Side. Mike will be here at ten a.m. Don't be late."

I turned and walked into the master bathroom, leaving Julian standing there like a statue.

The moment I closed the door, my legs gave out, and I nearly collapsed.

But I forced myself to stand, to look at my reflection in the mirror.

A six-month pregnant belly, exhausted eyes, messy hair.

But my gaze was clear.

I was done with being the naive Stanford girl who believed in East Coast romance.

I was Claire Fucking Chase.

And I was going to take back everything that was mine.

I turned on the faucet, splashed cold water on my face, and pulled out my phone to text Cameron.

"Cam, get the Gulfstream ready. As soon as the legal process starts, I'm bringing the kids back to Palo Alto."

He replied immediately: "Already on it. Dad's lawyers are on standby. The Chase family doesn't lose, Claire. Especially not to some washed-up WASP."

I smiled―the first genuine smile of the day.