Chapter 13 - The Mistress Defects
Julian’s weekend only deteriorated further when he attempted to seek refuge with the woman for whom he had destroyed his marriage.
After being ejected from his corporate office on Friday afternoon, Julian had taken a bus to Chloe Miller’s luxury apartment in the trendy arts district—an apartment where he had been secretly paying half the rent using our joint savings account. He arrived at her door soaking wet from the rain, carrying two plastic shopping bags holding the few clothes he had managed to grab from his locker at work.
He pounded on her door for ten minutes before she finally swung it open, leaving the heavy brass chain engaged so he could only see half of her face through the narrow gap.
“Chloe! Baby, let me in,” Julian pleaded, leaning his forehead against the doorframe. “It’s been a nightmare. My bitch of a wife got me fired today. She fabricated an audit! But don't worry, once the divorce goes through, I’ll get alimony and we can—”
“Are you insane, Julian?” Chloe interrupted, her voice sharp and dripping with disgust. She wasn't wearing her usual affectionate smile; her face was hard, cold, and calculating. “You’re not coming in here.”
“What? Chloe, it’s me! I paid for that sofa you’re sitting on!”
“You paid for it with stolen company money!” she hissed through the crack in the door. “HR pulled me into a two-hour interrogation this morning! I almost lost my job because you lied to me! You told me you were a senior partner making three hundred grand a year! You told me your wife was a nobody who signed a prenuptial giving you everything!”
“She did! I mean—we can fight it in court!” Julian scrambled, trying to push his fingers into the door gap. “I need a place to crash, Chloe. Just for a week until my lawyer sorts out my bank accounts!”
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Chloe laughed—a cruel, dismissive sound that mirrored the exact laugh Eleanor had directed at me four days earlier. “Your bank accounts are zeroed out, Julian. The police came by my desk an hour ago asking questions about your expense fraud. I told them everything. We are over. If you ever come to my building again, I’m having the concierge trespass you.”
She slammed the door shut, the deadbolt clicking decisively into place. Julian stood alone in the carpeted hallway of the luxury building, holding his plastic shopping bags, realizing that the twenty-six-year-old trophy mistress he had traded his marriage for had completely defected the second the money check bounced.
