Chapter 3: Blood on the Marble
The following morning, the air in Manhattan is crisp and charged with electricity. As soon as Jason leaves for his “office” with his gym bag, I execute the final phase of my physical departure.
I call my firm and request emergency personal leave. Moving with clinical precision, I pack my personal documents, jewelry, and my son’s belongings into three large suitcases. Everything else—the furniture I bought, the decor I chose—is left behind like the shed skin of a snake. I drop my son off at my mother’s house in Brooklyn, kissing his forehead and promising him a big adventure soon.
I dress for war. I slip into a tailored, black silk dress that hugs my frame, paired with stilettos that click like a ticking time bomb. I spray a mist of Tom Ford perfume—a gift to myself. Looking in the mirror, the woman staring back is formidable, untouchable, and utterly lethal.
I pull up the GPS tracker I secretly cloned onto Chloe’s phone weeks ago. The blinking red dot is moving steadily up the New Jersey Turnpike, approaching the Lincoln Tunnel. The two walking disasters will arrive in less than an hour.
I drive my car across town and park it in a discrete underground garage. I walk to an upscale café directly across the street from the Aster Tower. I order a double espresso, black, and select a window seat obscured by a large potted palm. From here, I have an unobstructed view of the soaring glass lobby.
I sip the bitter coffee. The caffeine sharpens my senses. I wait.
At 10:15 a.m., a battered yellow taxi screeches to a halt at the curb in front of the Aster Tower. The doorman, dressed in a pristine uniform, steps forward, his brow furrowing in immediate confusion.
The doors fly open, and my mother-in-law and sister-in-law spill out onto the pristine Manhattan pavement. They look spectacularly, hilariously out of place.
Barbara is wearing a bright fuchsia velour tracksuit, sweating heavily under the morning sun, her neck draped in chunky, outdated gold chains. Chloe is struggling in a dress that is two sizes too small and painfully short, teetering on cheap platform heels. Together, they begin yanking massive, mismatched plaid tote bags and scuffed suitcases out of the trunk, barking orders at the cab driver.
“Look at this place, Mom!” Chloe shrieks, her voice piercing the ambient city noise. “The chandelier in there is bigger than our old house! I told you Jason was a billionaire!”
“Hey! You there in the suit!” Barbara waves aggressively at the doorman. “Come carry these bags! And be careful, there are jars of homemade preserves in there. If you break them, it’s coming out of your paycheck!”
The doorman blinks, maintaining his professional composure but stepping back slightly. “Good morning, ladies. Are you guests of a resident? Our building has strict security protocols. I need a name to call up to the front desk.”
“Guest? Are you blind?” Chloe sneers, putting a hand on her hip. “We are the owners. My brother, Jason Davis, bought the mega-penthouse on the eighteenth floor. We don’t need you to call anyone. I have the door code right here on my phone. Now grab the bags before I have my brother fire you!”
The doorman’s smile vanishes. “Ma’am, without a resident key fob or prior authorization from the leaseholder, I cannot allow you past the lobby. Please speak with the concierge.”
“Insolent city trash,” Barbara mutters loudly, grabbing two heavy tote bags. “Chloe, ignore him. We will go to the desk and demand the manager.”
I watch with supreme satisfaction as the two women bulldoze their way into the lobby, causing an immediate scene. Through the glass, I can see Chloe slamming her hand on the marble front desk, screaming at the elegant receptionist. Because Jason had technically registered the lease under his own name (even though Lexi lived there), the receptionist, flustered and intimidated by the sheer volume of the rural banshees, eventually prints them a temporary freight-elevator pass just to get them out of the lobby.
I watch the LED floor indicator above the elevator bank. 10… 12… 15… 18.
My heart thumps a steady, victorious rhythm against my ribs.
I stand up, leave a fifty-dollar bill on the table, and walk out of the café. I cross the street with unhurried grace. I bypass the front desk entirely. Thanks to a private investigator, I have a perfectly cloned RFID key fob for the building. I swipe it at the resident elevator and step inside, pressing the button for the 18th floor.
The hallway of the 18th floor is a masterpiece of quiet luxury. Thick, sound-absorbing wool carpets, recessed amber lighting, and mahogany paneled walls. I step out and immediately slip into the recessed alcove near the emergency stairwell, casting myself in shadow.
Thirty feet away, standing before the heavy oak door of apartment 1805, Barbara and Chloe are panting, surrounded by a barricade of plaid luggage.
“God, my sciatica is killing me,” Barbara groans, wiping sweat from her brow. “Punch in the code, Chloe. Let’s get inside and put our feet up.”
“Hold on, these rich people keypads are confusing,” Chloe huffs, aggressively jabbing her acrylic nail into the digital screen. 0-2-1-4.
A red light flashes, followed by a harsh mechanical buzz.
Error. Please try again.
“What the hell?” Chloe smacks the panel. “Eleanor sent me this exact number. Is she trying to make fools out of us?”
“That wretched girl probably gave us the wrong number on purpose!” Barbara snarls, her face turning the color of an overripe tomato. “I paid six hundred thousand dollars for this property! I am not standing in the hallway!”
Barbara steps forward and begins hammering her meaty fist against the heavy wood, simultaneously leaning on the doorbell. DING-DONG. DING-DONG.
“Jason! Jason, open this door!” she bellows, her voice echoing down the pristine hallway. “Mom is here! Open up!”
For thirty seconds, there is only the sound of her assault on the door. Then, a heavy deadbolt clicks. The door swings open.
But it is not Jason standing in the doorway.
It is Lexi.
The twenty-two-year-old mistress looks like she just rolled out of a very expensive bed. She is wearing a scandalously short, burgundy silk nightgown that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. Her long, blonde extensions are a messy halo around her head. She holds an iced matcha latte in one hand and glares at the two women with eyes full of sleep and venom.
“Who the hell are you people?” Lexi demands, her voice dripping with extreme prejudice. “If you’re here to collect the recycling, you’re on the wrong floor. Take this junk back down to the alley.”
From my shadowy alcove, I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud. Recycling.
Barbara’s jaw drops. She stares at Lexi’s barely-covered chest, then up to her face, her rural, conservative brain short-circuiting. In her mind, this $600,000 penthouse is her son’s holy sanctuary. Finding a half-naked girl inside leaves only two possibilities: she is a very disrespectful maid, or a very cheap escort.
“Who are you calling recycling, you little tramp?” Barbara explodes, stepping forward so aggressively Lexi flinches. “I am Jason Davis’s mother! I am the owner of this house! Are you the cleaning girl? Where is your uniform? Get your things and get out before I call the police for trespassing!”
Lexi freezes. The name Jason Davis registers, but the sheer arrogance of a girl who has her rent paid by an older man overrides any logic. She looks Barbara up and down, taking in the sweaty velour suit and the plastic bags. She sneers.
“You’re Jason’s mother? Please. You look like a bag lady who wandered off the subway,” Lexi scoffs, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Jason is a CEO. His family has class. This is my apartment. The lease is in my name. Now back the hell away from my door before I call security and have you arrested for harassment.”
