Chapter 3 - Marjorie’s Counterattack
That evening, the doorbell rang at the apartment I was renting downtown—a high-rise loft with floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the glittering Raleigh skyline.
I checked the lobby intercom screen.
Marjorie Sloan stood in the lobby, wearing a stiff lavender trench coat and glaring up at the security camera with the furious entitlement of a queen whose castle was being invaded by peasants.
I pressed the lobby release button, unlocked my apartment door, and waited in the hallway.
When the elevator dinged and the doors slid open, Marjorie marched down the carpeted corridor as if she owned the building. She didn't wait for an invitation; she pushed past me into the apartment, her eyes darting over the minimalist decor, the open kitchen, and the unpacked boxes near the bedroom.
“You’ve completely lost your mind,” Marjorie announced, turning to face me as I closed the door. “Selling the house out from under him? Do you have any idea how humiliating this is for Derek at his firm? His colleagues are asking why his wife has put a 'For Sale' sign on his lawn!”
I crossed my arms, leaning against the kitchen counter. “His firm doesn't own my house, Marjorie. And if he’s embarrassed, he should have thought of that before he spent three years telling me and everyone else that marrying me was his biggest mistake.”
Marjorie sneered. “Oh, please. Don’t be such a melodramatic little girl. Men reminisce! Derek was just expressing a passing nostalgia for college days. You threw a childish temper tantrum, packed a bag, and now you’re dismantling a family over nothing!”
“A family?” I laughed, the sound sharp and humorless. “What family, Marjorie? The one where you sit across the dinner table and laugh while your son tells his wife he wishes he’d married his ex? Or the one where he uses me as a financial safety net while plotting to sell off his ex-fiancée's business secrets?”
Marjorie’s mouth dropped open. A micro-expression of sheer panic flickered across her powdered face before she quickly rebuilt her haughty mask.
“What… what nonsense are you talking about?” she stammered.
“Adam called me,” I said simply. “I know about Paige. I know why she threw him out. And I know that Derek didn't marry me because he loved me—he married me because he needed someone quiet, stable, and financially secure to bail him out after he burned every bridge in town.”
Marjorie stepped forward, lowering her voice into a venomous hiss. “You listen to me, Maren. If you think you’re going to walk away from this divorce with your savings intact and Derek paying alimony, you’ve got another thing coming. I’ve already spoken to our family lawyer. We’re going to sue you for alienation of affection, fraudulent asset conversion, and mental cruelty. We will bleed you dry until you’re begging on Fayetteville Street.”
I smiled. Not a warm smile. A cold, surgical smile that made Marjorie take an involuntary step backward.
“Go ahead and sue me, Marjorie,” I said, walking to the door and pulling it open. “Because every single text message, every dinner party witness, every financial transfer, and every recording of your son admitting he used me as a placeholder is currently sitting in a secure digital folder on my attorney’s desk. Let’s see how a judge likes your little family values.”
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Marjorie stared at me, realizing for the first time that the quiet, compliant woman she had bullied for three years had turned into a predator protecting her territory.
Without another word, she turned on her heel, marched down the hallway, and jammed the elevator button until the doors swallowed her up.
