Leo sat on the sofa in our villa, drinking soup. Behind him, I could see the oil painting I'd paid a fortune for at auction, and the handcrafted Italian rug I'd had custom-made.
But what made my vision blur with rage was Virginia.
She was wearing my favorite sleepwear. My slippers.
Beaming, she leaned against him, one hand holding up her phone, the other flashing a peace sign.
The caption read:
"Finally able to take care of you while you're sick. Even though I've been misunderstood, the truth speaks for itself. Homemade bone broth, made with love—get well soon. "
I screenshot it and sent it to Leo:
"Living in MY house. Wearing MY clothes. Getting cozy with MY husband. And you call this 'innocent'?!"
His reply came instantly:
"Gladys, she got her clothes dirty making me soup. She's just borrowing something temporarily. She meant well. Don't overthink it."
I laughed—a cold, hollow sound.
"Meant well?"
"More like the soup was an excuse to worm her way into our home and into your bed. Wearing my clothes, playing house—what, does she think if she plays the cuckoo long enough, she'll graduate from mistress to wife?"
"Do you have to be so harsh?"
Leo's tone shifted, an edge creeping in:
"You're never around. She came specifically to take care of me. Would it kill you to show a little grace?"
"Gladys, you weren't like this before. When did you become so aggressive? So cold?"
I stared at the screen, so furious I almost laughed.
Aggressive? Cold?
When James Group's cash flow collapsed, it was my aggression that drove my team through a month of sleepless nights to secure the investment that saved his company.
When his father was critically ill, it was this cold woman who shelved a multi-billion-dollar acquisition to spend two weeks sleeping in a hospital chair by his bedside.
He used to say he admired my boldness in business. My decisiveness. My killer instinct.
Now that he had a sweet, gentle little angel by his side, suddenly I was too harsh? Too cold?
Aunt Diane Harding insisted I stay to keep her company, so it wasn't until the third day that I caught the earliest flight home.
The fingerprint lock hadn't been changed.
But my fingerprint had been deleted.
I stood at my own front door and rang the bell.
Virginia answered.
This time, she wore Leo's dress shirt. The hem barely grazed her thighs. Her hair hung wet and tousled, like she'd just stepped out of the shower.