For one suspended second, I simply stood in the silence of my bedroom, listening to Eleanor Harrington try to beat my front door off its hinges.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
My apartment, usually a sanctuary of clean lines and pale stone and soft cashmere and floor-to-ceiling views of Manhattan, suddenly felt like a glass box in the middle of a storm. “Marissa!” Eleanor shrieked from the hallway. “I know you’re in there!”
I grabbed my robe from the chair beside the bed and tied it around me with trembling hands. Not because I was afraid of Eleanor, exactly. I had feared that woman for years, but in the quiet, exhausting way one fears humiliation and judgment and constant emotional warfare. I had feared her comments at dinner, her cold glances, her little smiles whenever Anthony chose her side, her particular talent for making me feel like an intruder in my own marriage. But this was different. This was rage without manners, and Eleanor Harrington without manners was something I had never seen before.
The pounding came again. “Open the door, you vindictive little social climber!”
I moved into the entry hall and stopped several feet from the door. The security screen beside it showed the camera feed from outside, and there she was. Eleanor stood in the hallway wearing a cream Chanel coat, oversized sunglasses pushed up into her perfectly styled silver-blonde hair, enough diamonds on her for a museum exhibit. Her lipstick was immaculate. Her face was twisted with fury. And beside her stood Anthony.
Of course. My ex-husband looked as though he had dressed in a hurry, his navy cashmere sweater wrinkled, his hair uncombed, his jaw tight. But what stunned me most was not his anger. It was the panic underneath it. He kept glancing down the hall toward the elevator, as if terrified someone might see them there.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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