Chapter 3

3.

At nine a.m. the next morning, I was dressed in a black Armani power suit, waiting in the living room.

Mike arrived on time with two associates and a briefcase full of documents.

"Morning, Claire," he said, lowering his voice. "Are you sure about this? The Vanderbilt family's legal team will be vicious. They have connections at Cravath, Sullivan & Cromwell."

"I'm sure," I said. "And my brother's team is on standby. If Julian wants to play hardball, the Chase family is ready. Don't forget, my father was an early investor in Google and Facebook. Our influence in Silicon Valley is something Wall Street old money can't compete with."

Julian came downstairs at five past ten. He clearly hadn't slept, his eyes were bloodshot, but he was dressed in a Brioni suit―his armor, a formal exterior to mask his inner panic.

"Mr. Vanderbilt," Mike stood up and extended his hand. "I'm Claire's attorney, Mike Rossi. Formerly of the DOJ's Antitrust Division, now a partner at Boies Schiller. I think we can resolve this amicably."

Julian ignored the handshake. He walked straight over and sat down across from me.

"Claire, can we talk about this in private?"

"We've already talked," I said. "This is the legal process. Either you sign, or we go to court."

Julian took a deep breath. "What if I told you that woman means nothing to me?"

"Then how do you explain these?"

Mike pulled a stack of photos from his briefcase and spread them across the table.

My PI had taken them on the Upper West Side―Julian and Emily at a playground with the boy, Toby, tossing a football; kissing on their apartment balcony. Each photo was time-stamped, GPS-tagged, and verified for metadata integrity.

Every single one was admissible in court.

Julian's face went completely white.

"You had me followed?"

"No, I protected my financial interests," I corrected him. "New York family law permits a spouse to take necessary investigative measures when they suspect the other of wasting marital assets. Your lawyers at Cravath should have told you that."

Mike jumped in. "Furthermore, Mr. Vanderbilt, we've also obtained the lease agreement for you and Emily Carrington, your Amex Black Card statements, and the tuition payment records for the child at The Dalton School―fifty-eight thousand dollars a year. If you want to deny this relationship, we can discuss it at length in the New York Supreme Court, where we'll file for full discovery and lay all your financial records bare."

Julian was silent.

After a long moment, he finally spoke. "I need time to think."

"You have twenty-four hours," I said, standing up. "By this time tomorrow, either you sign, or I'm sending these materials to Page Six at the New York Post and The Wall Street Journal. I think 'Vanderbilt Media Group CEO's Extramarital Affair, Alleged Tax Fraud, and Asset Diversion' would make for a great headline. Oh, and that SEC inquiry into your company's financial reporting? That would pair nicely with this story."

I picked up my Hermès Birkin bag and walked to the door without looking back.

"Claire!" Julian suddenly shouted.

I stopped but didn't turn around.

"Those children..." his voice was hoarse. "I love them."

"You have a funny way of showing it," I said. "Under New York Family Law § 240, I get sole custody. You'll receive a bill every month―child support, education costs, health insurance―calculated at twenty-five percent of your annual income. Not a penny less. Of course, if you'd like to waive your visitation rights, we can renegotiate."

I walked out the door and got into my Tesla.

The moment the engine started, I saw Julian standing at the floor-to-ceiling window, a broken statue.

Mike slid into the passenger seat. "Are you really going to The New York Times?"

"I won't have to," I said. "He'll sign. The Vanderbilt family cares more about their reputation than anything. In the WASP world, scandal is worse than bankruptcy."

As the car pulled out of the estate, I took one last look in the rearview mirror.

The house I once thought would be my forever home was now just a building.

I took out my phone and called Cameron.

"Cam, book me a flight to Palo Alto. I'm coming home."

"It's about damn time," he said. "The guest room's ready. And, Claire? Dad wants to talk to you about that reproductive technology fund you mentioned. He thinks it's brilliant."

I smiled.

That was home.

Not some WASP mansion filled with hundred-year-old furniture and passive-aggressive in-laws.

It was Palo Alto, where we build the future, not worship the past.

The car turned onto the Montauk Highway, heading back to the city.

I took one last look at the ocean.

Goodbye, Hamptons.

Goodbye, Vanderbilt.

Goodbye, naive Stanford girl who believed in fairytales.

Hello, Claire Chase.

Welcome back.