Within fifteen minutes, both the reporters at my door and the online posts had vanished.
That night, Richard—who hadn’t stepped foot home in half a year—stormed into my bedroom.
“Claire Dawson, you’ve lost your mind! Where did you get that stuff?”
“You’ve broken the law—believe it or not, I could have you arrested.”
Adjusting the folds of my face mask, I studied his furious reflection in the mirror.
“Arrest me? You wouldn’t dare.” I replied flatly to his threat.
“Claire, must you make this so public? You know Natalie can’t have children. She poses no threat to your position as Mrs. Carter. All she wants is a little love. Do you really have to humiliate her?”
I let out a bitter laugh, wiping away tears I couldn’t control.
Humiliate her? She seduced my husband. She framed me.
And I’m the one who must bear society’s moral condemnation?
“Richard, stop acting sanctimonious—it disgusts me.”
He knew me well enough to understand: once I start something, I don’t stop.
Sighing, he rubbed his temples, as if making a great concession.
“Claire, whatever you want, I’ll give it to you. Just admit publicly that the masked woman in the video was you.”