That word echoed in my mind as I drove home that afternoon, knowing I had exactly forty minutes before Travis returned from playing racquetball with Marcus. Once inside, I moved quickly: I printed out our joint account statements, reviewed his meticulously organized files, and photographed everything as if it were insurance. The numbers floated before my eyes: deposits I didn’t recognize, withdrawals I couldn’t explain, transfers to unknown accounts.
I had just closed the drawer when the doorbell rang. The sound made my heart pound.
Through the peephole stood a woman in a tailored black suit, holding a bag of clothes and with a polished, professional smile.
Mrs. Mitchell? This is Vivien from Styled Excellence. Your mother-in-law asked me to help you with the preparations for your birthday party.
Eleanor Mitchell’s gift had arrived.
Opening the door, I discovered Vivien wasn’t alone. An assistant followed, carrying two racks of clothes and a makeup case large enough to stock a cosmetics counter. They transformed my living room into a temporary showroom with military precision.
—Mrs. Mitchell emphasized the importance of her presence for such an important evening— said Vivien, observing me with clinical detachment. — She mentioned that several distinguished guests would be attending.
She circled me with a measuring tape, reciting numbers to her assistant, who entered them into an iPad. The way she adjusted my posture, tugged at my sleeves, and examined my hair made me feel less like a person and more like an inventory being checked.
Have you ever considered lip fillers? They would improve facial symmetry. And perhaps a subtle treatment around the eyes. Dr. Morrison specializes in mature skin.
Mature skin. She was thirty-four years old.
We’ll also need to address basic garments. The right structure can refine the silhouette and perfectly complement these designs.
She held up a dress that looked more like a designer piece than a sewn garment. “With the right support, it would look exquisite.”
For two hours, they dressed and redressed me, talking about my body as if it weren’t there: too soft in some places, too defined in others, my complexion uneven, my hair unsuitable and unprofessional. By the time they left, promising to return with alternatives, I felt stripped of the fragile confidence I’d begun to rebuild since accepting Rachel’s card.
I met Rachel in a coffee shop, still feeling like my skin belonged to someone else. She looked at me for half a second before ordering a large coffee with extra sugar.
“Tough day?” he asked.
“My mother-in-law hired a stylist to get me ready for my birthday dinner.”
Rachel clenched her jaw. “Because you need to look your best for the important guests.”
“Seventeen of them.”
I spread the bank statements on the table. “Travis organized my entire birthday dinner without telling me. I found the confirmation email in our shared calendar this morning.”
Rachel scanned the guest list she had scribbled. Her finger stopped on a name.
“Amber Lawson,” he read. “His secretary.”
“She’s… efficient,” I said cautiously. “She stays late when Travis asks her to.”
Rachel’s gaze could have ripped paint off a wall. She focused her attention on the financial records, her eyes moving quickly as she deciphered patterns hidden in plain sight.
His finger stopped on a line.
This withdrawal, eight thousand dollars, is listed as guest entertainment. But look at the date. —He tapped the paper—. This charge corresponds to the St. Regis credit card. Presidential Suite. Champagne. Room service for two.
She looked up at me.
“Was that entertainment for the customer?”
Travis was supposedly at a conference in Miami that weekend. What a conference.
Rachel opened her laptop, her fingers moving rapidly across the keys. “Let me teach you how to recognize financial patterns.”
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