Chapter 2

The next morning, Brandon kissed my cheek by the foyer before heading out.

"I booked that high-end omakase spot by the river for tonight. Seven o'clock. Don't be late."

The moment the front door clicked shut, I pulled up Chloe's Instagram profile.

Her bio read: Mindfulness & Emotional Healing Coach | Empowering Modern Women | Claim the Life You Deserve.

Follower count: 830,000.

Her profile picture was a polished, soft-glam side profile.

Last night, she had posted a new story—a screenshot of a money transfer. The digits were blurred, but carelessly so, leaving a distinct "5" followed by four zeros fully visible.

Her caption read: Being cherished like a queen isn't something you beg for. It's what you inherently deserve.

Over a thousand comments flooded the post, drowning in praise: God, you're so blessed! Where can I find a man like this? Manifesting this energy!

I kept scrolling down her grid.

In March, she had flaunted a diamond tennis bracelet. I recognized the luxury brand immediately.

Last month, Brandon's AmEx statement had a forty-eight-thousand-dollar charge from that exact jeweler. He claimed it was a corporate gift for a VIP client.

In January, she posted a carousel of sun-drenched beach photos in Miami. Brandon had flown to Miami for a business trip that exact weekend.

He told me he was stuck in back-to-back boardroom meetings and sent me photos of sterile conference rooms.

In November, she uploaded a reel set to soft indie pop, filming herself in the passenger seat of an SUV, the camera briefly sweeping across the custom leather steering wheel.

It was Brandon's Porsche Cayenne.

I took eight distinct screenshots, cataloging them by date.

When Riley called, I was midway through my second espresso.

"I ran a background check on that account you sent me," Riley said, her voice hushed and hurried. "Chloe Vance. Real name's Chloe Miller, twenty-six years old. Want to guess what she did before this 'mindfulness guru' crap?"

"Tell me."

"Two years ago, she was seeing a wealthy restaurant franchise mogul in Chicago. Married guy. The wife caught wind of it and scorched the earth. Chloe changed her name, moved states, and rebranded herself from scratch as an emotional healing influencer."

"How did you track that down?"

"She didn't scrub her digital footprint clean enough. Changed her hair, but her facial structure is unmistakable. Reverse-image search worked like a charm." Riley paused, her tone turning grim. "Harper, she's a professional."

"A professional what?"

"A professional mistress. She targets wealthy, ambitious, married men whose wives are too busy running real careers to constantly hover over them. Her playbook is textbook: she starts with 'spiritual counseling' and 'stress relief,' gradually creating deep emotional dependency. The last guy she milked lost over two million dollars to her."

Silence hung heavily over the line.

Riley broke it: "Lay your cards on the table with Brandon tonight. You have the screenshots and the paper trail. Stalling will only give them time to cover their tracks."

"He won't believe me."

"Then force him to face it anyway."

Seven o'clock. The omakase restaurant.

Brandon smiled warmly, pulling out my chair with practiced chivalry.

"Making up for Valentine's Day properly. Order whatever you like."

Once the sashimi platters arrived, I slid my phone across the dark wood table, screen displaying Chloe's Instagram page.

"Take a look at her."

Brandon picked up the phone, swiping idly.

"What about her?"

"Two years ago, she targeted a married restaurant owner in Chicago and drained over two million dollars from him. She changed her name, moved out here, and now she's running the exact same hustle on you."

Brandon set the phone down and looked up at me.

"You hired someone to dig up dirt on her?"

"I did my research."

"Harper, do you have any idea how you look right now?"

He raised his sake cup, taking a slow, condescending sip. "You look like one of those unhinged, paranoid housewives from a cheap reality show."

"I am stating verified facts."

"You are grasping at thin air."

He pushed the phone back across the table. "She is a legitimate brand consultant under contract with our firm. Everything is strictly above board. You're welcome to audit the legal retainer with our in-house counsel tomorrow if you want."

"And the car in her video? The tennis bracelet? Her trip to Miami matching yours to the day? Are those part of her brand consulting duties, too?"

Brandon's chopsticks froze for a split second before he smoothly popped a piece of salmon into his mouth.

"Miami was a work trip. The bracelet was a client gift—I have no clue how she got her hands on one just like it. And the car? I probably gave her a ride to the airport once."

Every excuse rolled off his tongue effortlessly. Every justification sounded entirely reasonable.

I stared into his eyes; he didn't blink once.

"Brandon, do you honestly think I'm that stupid?"

He put his chopsticks down and exhaled a heavy, exasperated sigh.

"Are you just under too much stress lately? If you want, I can set you up with a therapist."

He wasn't just gaslighting me; he was implying I was mentally unstable.

"Brandon, I am giving you one last chance to be honest with me. What is your relationship with Chloe?"

"We are colleagues. Believe it or don't, but my conscience is entirely clear."

He picked his chopsticks back up.

I looked down at the delicate cuts of fish on the plate before me.

The pristine marbling of the salmon looked as flawless and chilling as the lies coming out of Brandon's mouth.

On the drive home, he kept his eyes on the road. The passenger glove compartment wasn't fully shut, exposing the sleek gold cap of a lipstick tube.

A bold cherry red. Not my shade.

I nudged the compartment shut with my knee and kept my mouth shut.

Back at the penthouse, Brandon headed straight to the shower.

Standing in the hallway, I heard his voice faintly over the rush of water. Most of it was muffled, but one sentence cut through the noise:

"She dug into your past. Tone down your posts and stop being so flashy."

I leaned my shoulder against the wall, staring at the recessed ceiling light at the end of the hall.

My phone buzzed.

A text from an unknown number:

Hi Harper, this is Chloe. Brandon mentioned you've been dealing with a lot of emotional instability lately. As a holistic healing coach, I'd love to offer some support if you're open to it.