Chapter 3 - The Safe Haven on King Street
By 11:30 PM, I was sitting at the wooden kitchen island of my sister Maya’s apartment on King Street in downtown Charleston.
Maya was three years younger than me, fierce, unapologetic, and possessed of a protective instinct that could rival a mother bear. She had opened the door wrapped in an oversized flannel bathrobe, taking one look at my pale face, dry eyes, and wet coat, and had immediately pulled me inside without asking a single question.
Now, a steaming mug of peppermint tea sat between my hands, warming my frozen fingers.
Maya stood by the stove, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed, watching me with a gaze so intense it felt like a physical weight.
"So," Maya said quietly, her voice dangerously low. "He did it."
"He did it," I echoed, staring into the dark amber surface of the tea.
"Did he deny it?"
"Not for long. The moment his phone lit up with Victoria Lane's name, the game was up. He admitted to eight months."
Maya let out a sharp, venomous curse that made her rescue cat jump off the sofa. "Eight months? That means he was cheating on you while you were going through the first trimester—while you were sick, exhausted, and building a nursery for his child."
"He said he was unhappy," I murmured, feeling a dull, hollow ache behind my ribs. "He said we're not the same people anymore."
"Oh, bulls***!" Maya slammed her hand against the counter. "Men like Nathan don't get to rewrite the rules of a marriage just because they get bored of the woman who supported them when they were eating ramen off a card table! What are you going to do, Clara? You can't go back to that house."
"I'm not going back," I said, looking up, my voice firm and clear. "I filed for the digital backups of all our joint accounts this afternoon through my laptop. I’m retaining an attorney tomorrow morning."
Maya’s expression softened slightly, a grim, approving smile touching her lips. "Good. Who are you calling? Do you want me to call Sarah's cousin? She handles high-net-worth divorces in Charleston and she's a shark."
"I’m calling Julian Vance," I said.
Maya’s eyes widened. "Julian Vance? Dad’s old law partner? Clara, Julian has been retired for five years."
"He still keeps an office downtown, and he handled our family's corporate trusts for thirty years," I said, standing up from the barstool and walking over to the window to look out at the rain-slicked brick streets below. "Nathan thinks he can control the narrative because he's the breadwinner, because his name is on the company contracts, and because he's accustomed to steamrolling people. He doesn't know that Julian Vance has known me since I was ten years old."
And more importantly, Nathan didn't know what my father had left me in the private safety deposit box at First Palmetto Bank.
Before my father passed away from his sudden stroke six months ago, he had summoned me to his office on a rainy Tuesday afternoon. He had handed me a heavy brass key and a single sentence: “If Nathan ever forgets who built his foundation, Clara, open box 412. It will remind him.”
May you like
For six months, I hadn't touched the key. I had trusted my husband. I had believed in our vows.
Tomorrow morning, the key was going to see the light of day.
