Chapter 3 - My Husband's Deal
Dominic shook his head immediately.
“No.”
Amanda pulled out her phone.
“Yes.”
Chloe tried to move toward her again.
Malcolm raised a hand.
“Stay where you are.”
Amanda's fingers trembled as she unlocked her screen.
“There are messages.”
Dominic stared at her.
“Amanda.”
His tone was no longer pleading.
It was warning.
She looked at him.
“You let them tear apart a pregnant woman's dress.”
“You don't get to threaten me now.”
She handed her phone to Malcolm.
He read quietly.
Then he looked at me.
I knew before he spoke.
“Mrs. Whitaker-Caldwell.”
“There are messages involving your husband.”
I held out my hand.
Dominic stepped forward.
“Vivienne, please.”
Malcolm gave me the phone.
The first message had been sent three days earlier.
DOMINIC: She won't leave unless something forces her to.
CHLOE: Public embarrassment works better than another argument.
AMANDA: What exactly are you asking me to do?
DOMINIC: Nothing permanent.
CHLOE: Just put the ring in her bag.
My vision blurred.
I read the next message.
DOMINIC: Once everyone thinks she stole from us, she'll finally understand she doesn't belong here.
My baby moved beneath my palm.
I pressed my hand against my stomach and kept breathing.
Dominic approached slowly.
“I was angry.”
I looked up.
“You planned to frame me for stealing a million-dollar ring.”
“I wasn't going to let the police arrest you.”
Something inside me went completely cold.
That was his defense.
Not that he had tried to stop it.
Only that he intended to control how far the cruelty went.
Chloe crossed her arms.
“Oh, please.”
“She has been miserable in this family for years.”
“She should be relieved.”
I turned toward her.
“Relieved?”
“You've never fit in.”
“You sit quietly at every dinner pretending you're better than everyone.”
I almost laughed.
She had mistaken restraint for weakness.
The ballroom doors opened again.
This time, a silver-haired man entered surrounded by attorneys and hotel executives.
My father.
Charles Whitaker.
He did not look at Chloe.
He did not look at Dominic.
His eyes went directly to my torn dress.
Then to my face.
He crossed the room.
For one terrible second, I became eight years old again.
The daughter who had fallen from her bicycle and refused to cry until her father arrived.
“Dad.”
He took off his suit jacket and placed it carefully around my shoulders.
Then he kissed my forehead.
“I'm here.”
Dominic whispered behind me.
“Charles Whitaker?”
Someone near the dance floor recognized the name.
Then another person did.
Whispers spread.
Whitaker Holdings.
Whitaker International.
The family whose properties stretched across New York, Boston, Chicago, Miami, and London.
My father finally turned toward Dominic.
His expression was calm.
That frightened Dominic more than anger could have.
“You had three years to tell me what kind of man you were.”
Then Dad looked at the phone in my hand.
May you like
“Tonight, you finally did.”
---
