Chapter 2 - The Audition for a Victim
When I unlocked the door to our high-rise condo in River North, the apartment was pristine, silent, and smelled faintly of expensive lavender diffuser oil.
Ashley was sitting on the Italian white leather sofa, wearing a silk lounge set, an iPad resting on her knees. On the marble coffee table sat two untouched cups of artisan coffee and a curated charcuterie board. She had set the stage for a dramatic, calculated reconciliation—the kind where she would shed a few decorative tears, allow me to apologize for "overreacting" at the reception, and then gently steer us back toward our scheduled flight to the Caribbean.
She looked up as I entered, her face immediately transforming into a picture of soft, wounded vulnerability.
"Julian," she breathed, setting the iPad down and standing up. She didn't rush toward me; she executed a graceful, hesitant step, placing a hand over her heart. "You came back. I’ve been sitting here for hours, praying you’d give us a chance to talk."
I stood by the entryway console, not bothering to take off my shoes. I held the manila folder from Bennett Freight loosely at my side.
"Where is your mother, Ashley?" I asked.
She blinked, startled by the flat, emotionless tone of my voice. "My... my parents are at the Drake. They’re leaving for Denver tonight. Julian, please, come sit down. We need to process what happened. I know things got out of hand at the country club, but—"
"Things didn't get out of hand," I interrupted, stepping into the living room. "You made a deliberate decision to humiliate a woman who spent forty years building everything you’re currently standing on. And then you told your maid of honor that her gown cost more than my mother's truck."
Ashley’s posture stiffened slightly, a tiny flicker of annoyance cutting through her fragile facade.
"I was venting, Julian," she said, her voice dropping its soft cadence. "Melissa is my best friend. I was traumatized! You took my wedding ring off in front of a hundred and twenty people! Do you have any idea what my social circle is saying right now? The group chat has been blowing up since midnight!"
"Your group chat?" I let out a dry, humorless laugh. "A woman who loved me would be worried about the fact that she just severed my relationship with my mother. You’re worried about digital gossip."
"I am trying to protect our reputation!" she snapped, stepping closer, her eyes flashing. "Your mother is a wonderful, hardworking woman, Julian, nobody is denying that! But she has no social awareness! She walked up to me right after our first dance—while the photographer was taking candid shots—smelling like diesel and farm dirt, trying to crush my lace gown into her arms! She doesn't belong in those spaces, Julian, and you know it!"
"She paid for those spaces, Ashley," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "She wrote the check for the country club. She wrote the check for the floral installations. She wrote the check for the dress you’re so proud of. The only reason you were standing in that ballroom looking like royalty is because 'that woman' worked eighty hours a week in a steel-toed boot."
Ashley crossed her arms, letting out a sharp, dismissive sigh. "Fine! She paid for it! Does that give her the right to dominate our lives? Does that mean I have to spend the rest of my life bowing down to a woman who drives an old pickup and talks about freight margins at Christmas dinner?"
"No," I said, holding up the manila folder. "It means you don't get to spend her money while you spit on her shoes."
Ashley’s eyes dropped to the folder. Her brow furrowed. "What is that?"
"This is the file from Rachel's office," I said, tossing the manila folder onto the marble coffee table. It landed directly beside her charcuterie board, sliding across the polished surface. "The one containing the phone records from last autumn. The inquiries about my father’s 1994 partnership trust. The corporate law firm you retained in Chicago to see if my mother could be legally removed from board decisions."
The color drained from Ashley’s face so fast it looked as if she had been struck. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
The soft, wounded victim vanished. The polished socialite vanished. In their place stood a woman caught with her hand deep inside the safe.
"You... you went to Rachel?" she whispered, her voice suddenly thin and raspy.
"I went to my family’s legal counsel," I corrected her, taking a step toward her until I was looking down into her pale, terrified face. "The same counsel you tried to manipulate into giving you a roadmap to our corporate treasury before I even put a ring on your finger."
"Julian... listen to me," she stammered, reaching out to grab my forearm. Her fingers were trembling. "I was just being cautious! Marriage is a legal contract! My parents told me I had to make sure I was protected—"
"Protected from what?" I yelled, my voice finally cracking under the weight of two years of suppressed anger. "Protected from my mother? The woman who offered to give us her lake house for the summer? The woman who set up an educational fund for our future children before she even met your parents? You weren't protecting yourself, Ashley. You were scouting the vault."
She backed away from me, her heel catching on the edge of the rug. She stumbled, catching herself against the arm of the sofa.
"Get your things," I said.
Ashley froze. "What?"
"Get your personal belongings and leave this condo," I said, pulling my phone from my pocket. "I’m changing the digital locks at six o'clock. If you aren't out by then, security will move your bags to the lobby."
"You can't do this!" she screamed, her voice turning shrill, dropping all pretense of elegance. "We are legally married! I have rights to this apartment! This is marital property!"
"This condo is owned 100% by Bennett Freight Logistics Corporate Housing LLC," I said, pointing to the door. "You signed a temporary residential occupancy agreement when you moved in last spring. You have no equity here, Ashley. You have no share in the company. And as of 9:00 AM tomorrow morning, my attorneys are filing for a full annulment on the grounds of financial fraud and material misrepresentation."
Ashley stared at me, her chest heaving, tears of genuine panic finally spilling over her lashes—not tears of remorse, but the bitter, angry tears of a gambler who had just lost her final chip.
May you like
"You're making a huge mistake, Julian," she hissed, her face contorting into an ugly, venomous mask. "You’ll be nothing without my family’s connections! You’re just a glorified truck driver with a trust fund!"
"Maybe," I said, walking over to the front door and swinging it wide open. "But my trucks are paid for. Get out."
