My Husband Made Me Sit at the Lobby Bar While His Mistress Took My Seat—Then He Learned Who My Father Is
My Husband Made Me Sit at the Lobby Bar While His Mistress Took My Seat—Then He Learned Who My Father Is
The grand crystal chandeliers of the ballroom sparkled blindingly. I stood on the fringes of the crowd, holding a glass of Cabernet, watching Chris Lockwood navigate the guests with a smooth, elegant smile. The charcoal bespoke suit he wore tonight was one I had personally helped him get fitted for last month. And the cufflinks gleaming on his wrists were a Fifth Avenue limited edition I had gifted him for our third wedding anniversary.
But the woman standing by his side right now was not me.
Madison Cole wore a pale gold plunging evening gown, her arm linked tightly through Chris’s, smiling with the smug satisfaction of a cat that had swallowed the canary. I recognized that gown instantly. Chris had bought it during a business trip to Miami last month. I had thought it was a surprise gift for me. But the gift was Madison, and the dress was hers.
I scoffed coldly inward, but not a single emotion betrayed my face. Three years of marriage had taught me how to maintain my composure in front of others.
Tonight’s gala was Lockwood Enterprises’ year-end corporate banquet, and the attendees were a who’s who of industry titans and business partners. Chris’s mother, Margaret Lockwood, had spent the entire month obsessing over making this the social event of the season for the East Coast elite. Just the day before, she had berated me over the phone, drilling it into my head not to embarrass the Lockwood family.
I found myself quietly wondering who exactly was going to be embarrassed tonight.
“Chris, it looks like most of the guests have arrived. Shall we take our seats?” Madison’s voice was sickeningly sweet. She looked up at him, her eyes brimming with admiration and reliance. Chris smiled down at her, nodding gently. He then led her by the hand toward the VIP family table right next to the guest of honor seat. It was the table reserved for the Lockwood family.
Chris’s parents were already seated. Margaret was laughing pretentiously with a wealthy socialite while Edward Lockwood sat with his head down, scrolling through his phone. There were six seats at the family table. Chris’s parents, Chris, Madison, Chris’s younger sister, and the seat that should have been mine.
But right now, Madison’s glittering designer clutch was sitting squarely in front of my designated place setting.
Standing a few steps away, I watched clearly as Chris pulled the chair out for Madison. She beamed, saying, “Thank you, Chris,” and sat down as if it were her birthright. Chris took the seat beside her. From beginning to end, he didn’t spare me a single glance.
Margaret finally noticed me. However, her gaze swept over me like I was a cheap, tacky ornament before she immediately turned back to her conversation with the socialite.
A fire surged in my chest, but I forcefully tamped it down. That was when Madison turned her head and gasped, covering her mouth in mock surprise as if she had just spotted me.
“Oh my god, Jane, why are you still standing? Are we out of seats?” She widened her eyes, feigning absolute innocence. Then she turned to Chris. “Chris, I think we forgot to set a place for her.”
Chris finally looked up at me. His eyes were indifferent, distant, and even laced with a hint of annoyance.
“There’s a public sports bar downstairs,” he said. “Go down there and grab something to eat.”
The hotel’s public bar downstairs. He wanted me to go there. My husband was kicking his legal wife out to the lobby cafeteria at his own company’s year-end gala. And all because his executive assistant had taken my seat.
I gripped my wine glass tightly. My manicured nails dug into my palms, sending a sharp sting through my hands. Several guests at the adjacent tables had already noticed the commotion and began whispering. I didn’t need to hear them to know what they were saying. Isn’t that the CEO’s wife? Why is the assistant sitting with the family while the wife has no seat?
At that moment, Margaret finally stood up and took two steps toward me. With a fake, strained smile, she lowered her voice and hissed.
“Jane, the people here tonight are crucial VIP business partners. Madison is great at networking and handles her liquor well. Having her sit next to Chris is actually useful. You don’t know the first thing about high society. If you sit here, you’ll just stare blankly like an idiot. Do us a favor and go eat downstairs.”
She framed it as if she were doing me a massive favor. But the unconcealed triumph tugging at the corners of her mouth was plain as day.
For the past three years, Margaret had constantly degraded me. From the day I married Chris, she made it explicitly clear that I was unworthy of her son because of my middle-class background and modest savings. If Chris hadn’t been so stubborn, she would have never let a nobody cross the Lockwood threshold. She had said this to my face more times than I could count.
I endured it for three years. I swallowed every insult.
But tonight, it seemed they were determined to stomp on whatever shreds of dignity I had left.
Madison, playing the victim, chimed in with her sickeningly fake defense. “Oh, Jane, please don’t misunderstand. I’m strictly doing this for work. You saw how many important clients are here tonight. I need to help Chris entertain them and take a few drinks on his behalf. If it really bothers you, should I give you this seat?”
She made a slow, exaggerated show of starting to stand up, her eyes welling with crocodile tears as if she were the most wronged person in the world.
Chris instantly grabbed her hand and pulled her back down into the chair. His voice was cold and firm. “Your seat is right here.” Then he looked up at me, his tone resembling a boss reprimanding a clueless intern. “Jane, tonight is an important night. Grow up and don’t make things difficult for me.”
Don’t make things difficult for me.
A bitter, hollow laugh bubbled in my throat.
For the last three years, I woke up at six a.m. every morning to make him a healthy breakfast. Because he had a sensitive stomach, I constantly changed the menu, slow-cooking broths and making organic meals. When he came home blackout drunk from networking events, I stayed by his side until three a.m., wiping his face and forcing him to drink water. When he said his startup was strapped for cash, I gave him every penny of my personal trust fund and even pawned the vintage diamond necklace my mother had left me.
I endured his mother’s verbal abuse. I let his sister treat me like hired help. I, a beloved daughter of a prestigious family, had lived as a pathetically subservient housewife.
And the only reward I got was the phrase, “Don’t make things difficult for me.”
Wow. Just wow.
I loosened my death grip on the wine glass. My knuckles were stark white from the pressure. I didn’t cry, and I didn’t scream. I didn’t even spare him a second glance.
As I turned on my heel, my designer stilettos clicked sharply against the marble floor. Everyone probably assumed I was running away in humiliation to the downstairs bar. Behind me, I heard Madison’s quiet, mocking snicker. It wasn’t too loud or too soft. It landed perfectly in my ears.
But I didn’t head for the elevators.
Instead, I walked straight toward the most exclusive VIP table located in the deepest part of the ballroom. Only the absolute titans of Wall Street and corporate America sat at that table. Any single one of them controlled a Fortune 500 company ten times the size of Lockwood Enterprises.
And sitting at the very center, the seat of honor, was a distinguished man in his early fifties, exuding a heavy commanding aura with his sharp features. He completely ignored the sycophants flocking around him to offer drinks, instead slowly sipping from a crystal tumbler of sparkling water.
With the entire ballroom’s attention drawn to me, I walked right up to the VIP table, pulled out the empty chair next to him, and sat down with utmost elegance.
Instantly, the noise in the entire ballroom plummeted.
Margaret was the first to realize what was happening. Her face turned ghastly pale as she power-walked over to me, grinding her teeth as she hissed. “Jane, are you insane? That’s Chairman Sinclair’s seat. Get up this instant.”
Madison followed closely behind, looking terrified. She tugged at Chris’s sleeve and whispered, “Chris, Jane must have lost her mind out of anger. That’s Jonathan Sinclair’s table. What is she doing?”
Chris, his face the color of dirt, marched over and reached out to grab my arm. “Jane, get up right now.”
Before his hand could even touch me, I turned my head to look at the imposing man sitting beside me. I curled my lips into the brightest, most affectionate smile.
“Hey, Dad. I’m here.”
The word Dad rang out clear and crisp, rippling through the ballroom like a boulder dropped into a stagnant pond, plunging the entire venue into dead silence.
Chris’s hand froze midair. He stood rooted to the spot as if struck by lightning. Margaret’s jaw dropped so wide her wrinkles stiffened, her eyes practically popping out of her skull. The smug smile plastered on Madison’s face completely solidified, and the hand gripping Chris’s arm unconsciously slipped away.
Jonathan Sinclair put down his glass and turned to me. The intimidating, indifferent aura he showed to outsiders vanished in a heartbeat, replaced entirely by overwhelming paternal affection and warmth. He reached out and ruffled my hair, his voice tinged with a laugh but carrying a husky emotional edge he couldn’t quite hide.
“My stubborn little girl. Have you finally decided you want to come home?”
My eyes burned for a second, but I fought back the tears without crying. I turned my head and gave a relaxed, confident smile to the group standing behind me, all of whom were wearing various expressions of sheer terror.
“Allow me to introduce you,” I said, looping my arm through Jonathan’s, keeping my voice at the perfect volume for everyone nearby to hear. “This is my father, Jonathan Sinclair, chairman of Sinclair Holdings.”
After saying that, I looked up at Chris. His face was as white as a sheet of paper. I smiled at him—a smile so sweet it could make a man’s knees buckle.
“Honey, didn’t you say it was your lifelong dream to meet Chairman Sinclair just once? Well, now you know he’s my dad.”
The ballroom was so quiet you could hear a pin drop, let alone the clinking of glasses. Chris’s hand, still suspended in the air from when he tried to drag me away, now hung in a ridiculous, frozen posture. His lips trembled violently as if he wanted to speak, but he couldn’t force a single syllable out.
I kept my arm linked with my father’s, smiling with perfect poise. “What’s wrong, darling? You always wanted to secure a partnership with Sinclair Holdings.” I tilted my head. My tone was casual, as if I were commenting on the weather. “My dad is right here. Aren’t you going to offer him a toast?”
Chris’s Adam’s apple bobbed heavily.
Behind him, Margaret’s face had gone from blue to a sickening translucent white. She looked back and forth between me and Jonathan Sinclair, her lips quivering like a leaf in the wind. In her eyes, which were usually busy looking at me like I was a cockroach, I saw sheer unadulterated terror for the first time.
“How is this possible?” Margaret muttered, her voice barely a squeak. “She’s just—she’s definitely—definitely what?”
Jonathan Sinclair spoke. He didn’t raise his voice. In fact, he sounded incredibly calm. But the temperature in the ballroom felt like it had instantly plummeted ten degrees. The whispering guests snapped their mouths shut, and even the waiters carrying trays froze in their tracks.
Jonathan didn’t stand up, nor did he look at Margaret. He simply picked up his glass and gently swirled the water. The sharp, cold clink of the ice cubes echoed loudly.
“It seems my daughter, Jane Sinclair, has suffered greatly in the Lockwood household for the past three years.”
He set the glass down on the table and finally lifted his gaze, looking past Chris to fix his eyes dead on Margaret. Overwhelmed by the sheer pressure of his stare, Margaret instinctively stumbled backward.
“Chairman Sinclair, this is all a misunderstanding. A huge misunderstanding.”
Edward Lockwood finally snapped out of his shock and rushed over, his cheeks jiggling with tension. “We—we had no idea Jane was your daughter, sir. If we had known—”
“If you had known, you would have treated her a little better?” Jonathan cut him off. There was a faint trace of a smile in his tone, but it was as cold as a glacier. “Are you saying my daughter only deserves to be treated with basic human decency if she announces whose child she is?”
Edward choked on his words, his face flushing a deep, embarrassed crimson.
Watching him panic didn’t bring me a sense of vindictive satisfaction. It only made me feel bitter. For the past three years, Edward had been practically invisible in that house. No matter what vicious things Margaret said, he just listened in silence, never once taking my side. When I slaved away in the kitchen all day to cook a massive holiday dinner, he never gave me a second glance. When Margaret nagged and berated me, he would sit on the couch reading the Wall Street Journal, pretending he couldn’t hear a thing.
And now, seeing him scramble in desperation was just pathetic.
Madison was still standing beside Chris, her face drained of all blood. Her hand, which had been clutching Chris’s arm, hung limply at her side. She looked like a woman with her feet nailed to the floor, unable to move a muscle. Her lips parted as if she were trying to say something.
I didn’t give her the chance.
“Miss Cole,” I said, looking at her with a gentle, warm smile. “Didn’t you say earlier that the reason you sat next to my husband was to help him entertain the clients?”
Madison’s face went from stark white to flushed red, repeating the cycle before she finally squeezed out a single phrase through trembling lips. “Ja—Jane—”
“Call me Miss Sinclair,” I interrupted. My voice as soft as a spring breeze. “Or just Jane Sinclair is fine, too. After all, my father’s last name is Sinclair. As in Sinclair Holdings.”
Madison’s face turned into a perfect blank sheet of paper.
I said this so everyone present could hear it. Three years ago, when I married Chris, I used my maternal grandmother’s maiden name, going by Jane Preston. I meticulously hid my identity as the sole heiress to the Sinclair Empire because I wanted to be absolutely sure that Chris loved me for who I was—not for what I could give him.
Three years later, the answer was painfully obvious. The person he loved wasn’t me. It wasn’t even Madison. The only thing he loved was himself, and whatever ladder could help him climb higher.
Margaret finally seemed to regain her senses. Taking a deep breath, she plastered a forced, sickeningly sweet smile back onto her face. It was so fake it made my teeth ache.
“Jane, my sweet daughter-in-law.” She stepped forward, reaching out to grab my hand. “Oh, you silly girl. How could you keep such a huge secret from your own mother for so long? We’re family. If there’s a misunderstanding, we can just sit down and talk it out, right?”
I shifted my body, dodging her hand. “Mrs. Lockwood,” I smiled as I looked at her. “When you told me to go eat at the lobby cafeteria just now, you didn’t mention anything about us being family.”
Margaret’s hand froze in midair, and her smile began to crack. “That—that was just because I didn’t know, sweetheart. I didn’t know.”
“Didn’t know what?” I tilted my head. “Didn’t know who I really was? Or didn’t know the basic common sense that a wife sits next to her husband?”
Margaret was struck dumb by my question.
It was then that Chris, who had been dead silent, finally spoke. “Jane.” He took a step forward, his voice. His eyes held a complex mix of emotions I had never seen before. “Can we—can we talk in private?”
Looking at this man I had shared a bed with for three years, I felt a chilling sense of unfamiliarity. His brow was furrowed, panic swirling in his eyes. But the dominant emotion was denial. Disbelief. He simply couldn’t process the reality that the fiercely obedient wife he had ignored for three years was the sole heiress to Sinclair Holdings. The realization that the golden ticket he had been desperately searching for had been sleeping next to him every night must have been breaking his brain.
How hilariously pathetic.
“Talk about what?” I asked with a light laugh.
Chris gritted his teeth. “About our issues.”
“Our issues?” I repeated his words, the smile never leaving my face. “You mean the issue where you seated your assistant at the VIP family table and banished your legal wife to the downstairs bar?”
Chris’s expression hardened. “Jane, I was thoughtless earlier. I apologize. But Madison is really just—”
“Just what?” I took a step back, moving closer to Jonathan. “Just your assistant? Just someone to help you drink? Or just someone you wanted to replace me with?”
Chris opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
Madison, panicking, hurriedly intervened. “Jane, it’s a misunderstanding. Chris and I are strictly professional. I was just—”
She teared up again, putting on her best wounded gazelle look. That trick might work on Chris, but it was useless on me.
“Miss Cole,” I kept my smile in place as I stared her down. “I don’t care in the slightest what kind of relationship you have with my husband. Right now, there is only one thing I care about. You took my seat, sat next to my husband, wore the evening gown my husband bought, and swiped my husband’s corporate card all over town. How exactly do you plan on vomiting all of that back up?”
Madison froze completely, a tear literally stuck in her eyelashes. “What gown? What card?” she stammered, reflexively trying to deny it.
“That pale gold evening gown you’re wearing right now,” I said. “It’s a limited edition piece from the Bal Harbour shops in Miami. Retail price ten thousand dollars. My husband bought it when he went on a business trip there last month. He went alone—without me—and told me he didn’t have time to buy me a souvenir.”
Madison’s face turned completely ashen. Chris’s pupils dilated in absolute panic.
“Jane, how did you know that?”
“How did I know?” I burst out laughing, looking at him. “I’m the one who organizes your credit card statements every month. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice how much money you were pouring into Madison? I just didn’t care enough to ask.”
Chris’s face cycled through shades of green and purple. His lips moved soundlessly before he finally forced out, “You—you investigated me.”
“Investigated?” I reacted as if I had heard the funniest joke in the world. “The statements came to the house in the mail, and I opened them. What? You had the guts to spend the money but are terrified of someone finding out?”
The murmurs from the surrounding guests were growing louder. The Wall Street elite weren’t openly pointing fingers, but their ears were completely dialed into our conversation. Who would want to miss the live soap opera of the Sinclair heiress?
At that moment, Jonathan Sinclair stood up. As soon as he rose, the ballroom noise died down to complete silence once more. Jonathan wasn’t a massive man physically, but the sheer aura of a ruler who had sat at the apex of power for decades was enough to make everyone instinctively cower.
“That’s enough,” he said with a wave of his hand, speaking as casually as if commenting on the weather. “Jane, let’s go home.”
He then looked at Chris. There was no anger or dissatisfaction in his eyes—just the heavy, dark gaze of someone looking at a piece of insignificant trash that had nothing to do with him.
“Mr. Lockwood,” he said. “Please carry on with your banquet.”
All the color drained from Chris’s face at the formal address of “Mr. Lockwood.” Jonathan didn’t spare him another glance. He took my hand and walked toward the ballroom exit. Walking beside him, my designer heels clicked sharply and confidently against the marble.
As we passed Margaret, she suddenly lunged and grabbed my wrist. “Jane.” Her voice was thick with sobs. “You can’t leave. You are the Lockwood family’s daughter-in-law. If you follow your father home, what are we supposed to do?”
I stopped walking and looked down at her hand. She was gripping me so tightly her knuckles were white, her manicured nails digging painfully into my skin.
“Let go.”
My voice wasn’t loud, but Margaret snatched her hand back as if she had been burned. I looked at the mother-in-law who had glared at me with pure disdain for the past three years. Right now, her eyes were red, her expensive makeup smeared, looking utterly pathetic. But inside my heart, not a single drop of sympathy stirred.
“Mrs. Lockwood,” I smiled at her. “Goodbye.”
Without looking back a single time, I kept my arm linked with my father’s and walked out of the ballroom. Behind me, I heard Margaret’s sobbing shriek. “What do we do? What are we going to do now?” Then came Edward’s furious roar. “This is all your fault. If you hadn’t treated her like garbage every single day, would it have come to this?” “You’re blaming me? Look at what your son did. Spoiling that office secretary rotten. And now look where we are.” “Mom, Dad, please just stop.”
The last thing I heard was Chris’s broken voice. The heavy mahogany doors slowly shut behind me, sealing all that chaotic noise away into another world.
The hallway was dead silent, the thick plush carpet swallowing the sound of our footsteps. Walking arm-in-arm with my father, my nose suddenly stung, and I felt my eyes grow hot. I leaned my head against his shoulder and squeezed my eyes shut, fighting back the tears.
“Dad,” I called out softly.
“Yeah?”
“I really want Mom’s slow-braised Wagyu short ribs.”
Jonathan’s footsteps paused for a fraction of a second. Then he reached out and gently stroked my hair. It was the same careful, tender touch he used to put me to sleep when I was a little girl.
“Your mother heard you were coming home and started braising the meat three days ago. She bought the highest grade A5 Wagyu and the freshest truffles she could find. When your brother went to the airport to pick you up, your mom was practically glued to the stove.”
I let out a soft laugh, but the tears I had been holding back finally slipped down my cheeks.
“Let’s go,” Jonathan said. “Let’s go home.”
“Okay.”
When we arrived at the massive Sinclair estate in Greenwich, Connecticut, Mom was indeed guarding the kitchen. Before I even opened the front door, the rich, savory aroma of braised Wagyu beef filled the air. That scent vaulted over the gap of three years, instantly transporting me back to my childhood.
Mom came out of the kitchen holding a serving dish. As soon as she saw me, her eyes reddened. “You’ve lost so much weight.” She cupped my face in her hands, examining me from every angle. “Your jawline is so sharp. Did the Lockwoods starve you?”
“Mom, I know how to cook for myself. I wasn’t starving.”
“You cook?” Mom’s eyes widened. “Before you left this house, you didn’t even know how to fry an egg. Did you seriously cook meals for that entire Lockwood family?”
Mom’s face immediately hardened into ice. Beside us, Jonathan cleared his throat and remained silent. Mom stared at me intensely for three seconds before slamming the serving dish onto the dining table. She ripped off her apron and threw it over the back of a chair. When she spoke, her voice was subzero.
“Lockwood Enterprises. They have no idea who they’re messing with.”
She didn’t yell or flip the table. She just uttered that one short sentence. But I know my mother. The calmer she is, the more furiously angry she actually is. Back when I was a teenager, a rival tech CEO was wildly disrespectful to my dad at a charity gala. Mom used this exact tone when she said, “I don’t ever want to see that man’s face again.” Three months later, that company was forcibly liquidated and wiped off the map.
“Mom, let’s just eat first. The food will get cold,” I said.
Mom glanced at me, dropped the subject of the Lockwood family, and turned around to fetch the silverware. The dining table was covered with all my favorite dishes. Besides the braised Wagyu short ribs, there was lobster bisque, butter-poached scallops, and truffle mac and cheese. Every single dish was made by her hands—the exact flavors I had desperately craved for three years.
I lowered my head and took a sip of the warm bisque. The steam hit my face, and my eyes welled up again.
“Jane,” Jonathan said, putting down his spoon and looking at me. “What are your plans?”
I knew he wasn’t asking about the food. I put my spoon down, wiped my mouth with a linen napkin, and spoke. “Dad, have Mr. Sterling, our lead attorney, call me tomorrow morning.”
Jonathan’s eyebrow twitched slightly.
“I’m getting a divorce,” I said very calmly. “I don’t want a single red cent of Chris’s personal assets. But every dollar that man spent on Madison Cole over the last three years came from joint marital funds. I am going to make him spit out every last penny.”
“Is that all?” Jonathan asked.
I let out a soft laugh. “Of course not.”
I pulled out my phone and dialed a number. It connected almost instantly, and a highly respectful voice came through the receiver. “Miss Sinclair, how may I assist you?”
The man on the other end was Mr. Hayes, the general manager of the Grand Atoria. He was a twenty-year veteran of the luxury hospitality industry, and Sinclair Holdings was the hotel’s majority shareholder.
“Mr. Hayes,” I said, slowly stirring my soup with my spoon. “Lockwood Enterprises rented your main ballroom tonight. There’s a female guest named Madison Cole. Could you pull up her billing records for me?”
“I already have them prepared, ma’am,” Mr. Hayes said, lowering his voice slightly. “Miss Cole booked the presidential suite tonight under Mr. Lockwood’s name. The room charge was billed to the Lockwood Enterprises corporate card. She has stayed in that exact suite three times over the past month, and the payment method was identical every time.”
My hand, which was stirring the soup, paused. The presidential suite. In my three years of living with Chris, he had never once taken me to a suite like that. Even on our honeymoon, we stayed in a standard room at a run-of-the-mill resort because Margaret had lectured us that frugality is a virtue. But now, he was treating Madison to the presidential suite. How incredibly generous of him.
“Mr. Hayes, I’m sorry to trouble you, but please save screenshots of tonight’s presidential suite billing records and email them to me. And—” I paused for a moment. “Could you contact hotel security and have them handle a case of corporate espionage occurring on your premises tonight?”
“Understood, Miss Sinclair.”
I hung up and went back to eating my soup. Beside me, Mom looked like she was bursting with questions, finally unable to hold back. “Jane, about this Madison girl—are she and Chris—”
“Mom,” I cut her off with a smile. “I don’t want to dirty your ears with such pathetic, trashy stories.”
Mom pressed her lips together and didn’t ask anything else.
An hour later, Mr. Hayes called back. “Miss Sinclair, security has detained Miss Cole. She was caught attempting to embezzle a large sum of funds from a Lockwood Enterprises account via our internal network. We also found massive amounts of Lockwood internal documents downloaded to her personal cloud drive on her phone, including their VIP client database and confidential bidding sheets.”
I leaned back deep into my chair and curled my lips into a smile. “Have you called the police?”
“Not yet. I was waiting for your instructions.”
“Call them,” I replied. “Corporate espionage and embezzlement of that scale—she’s looking at serious felony charges.”
I ended the call and tossed my phone onto the table. Outside, it was pitch black. The leaves of the massive oak trees in the Greenwich estate’s courtyard rustled eerily in the autumn wind. I closed my eyes and leaned back. Chris’s face suddenly floated into my mind.
What kind of expression was he wearing right now? Shock? Fury? Or the belated, crushing despair of realizing he had touched someone he never should have messed with?
I honestly didn’t care to know.
Early the next morning, my phone blew up. First, there were a dozen missed calls from Chris. I didn’t answer a single one. Then, five from Margaret. Ignored. Finally, one call came through from Edward Lockwood. I answered that one.
“Jane. Jane! You finally answered.” Edward’s voice was frantic, the sheer panic practically bleeding through the speaker. “Madison was dragged away by the police. They’re saying it’s corporate felony charges. Chris is losing his mind right now. Jane, did you have something to do with—”
“Mr. Lockwood,” I cut him off with a calm, steady voice. “What did you just call me?”
Dead silence hung on the other end of the line before he stammered, “Ja—Jane—”
“In the past, didn’t you refer to me as ‘that middle-class nobody’?” I asked with a smile. “Why the sudden change in title today?”
Only the sound of Edward’s ragged breathing came through the phone. He couldn’t speak for a long time.
“I ordered the hotel to report Madison,” I said, leaning comfortably into the plush sofa, pinning the phone between my ear and shoulder as I poured myself a cup of Earl Grey tea. “If she has the guts to steal Lockwood corporate secrets, she should be prepared to pay the price. Mr. Lockwood, shouldn’t you be thanking me for taking out the trash at your company?”
“But Chris said those documents weren’t top secret—just standard client lists and bids.”
I let out a light laugh. “Mr. Lockwood, you’ve been in business your whole life. You really think client databases and bidding sheets aren’t trade secrets? If you’re confused, should I send the Sinclair Holdings legal team over to explain it to you in detail?”
Edward couldn’t argue back. I took a sip of my tea. The warm, fragrant taste lingered in my mouth.
“And one more thing,” I added, setting the teacup down. “The presidential suite Madison booked last night—she paid for it with the Lockwood corporate card. Blatant embezzlement of company funds. I already have all the billing records pulled. I’ll be using them as evidence in the divorce proceedings.”
“Divorce?” Edward’s voice pitched upward sharply. “Jane, you’re divorcing Chris?”
“Did you really think I wouldn’t?” I asked back. “Do you honestly think I’d return to the Lockwood house, go back to cooking your meals, doing your wife’s laundry, and cleaning up the trash your son leaves behind with other women?”
A long silence followed. Eventually, Edward spoke, his voice heavy. “Jane, over the last three years, our family committed a grave sin against you.”
His voice sounded as if he had aged ten years in a matter of seconds. But I felt absolutely nothing. A belated apology is like a cup of tea that has gone stone cold—bitter, astringent, and entirely devoid of comfort.
“Mr. Lockwood, pass a message to Chris for me,” I said. “I’ll send someone over with the divorce settlement tomorrow. Tell him to get his pen ready. Oh, and tell him he doesn’t need to bother going into the office anymore. As of this morning, Sinclair Holdings has officially initiated the procedures to acquire Lockwood Enterprises.”
“What? Acquire Lockwood?”
“Lockwood’s biggest vendors and clients are all subsidiaries of Sinclair Holdings,” I said flatly. “Chris probably thought he secured those contracts because of his own brilliance. But in reality, my brother pulled strings behind the scenes. My brother told me this morning—if I’m no longer the Lockwood daughter-in-law, there’s no reason to let Lockwood keep those contracts.”
Total silence descended on the other end of the line. Then the call disconnected. I couldn’t tell if he hung up or if the signal dropped.
I placed my phone down, stood up, and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The leaves on the oak trees in the yard had turned half gold, and the morning sun filtered through the branches, scattering what looked like gold dust across the lawn. Out in the garden, Mom was humming a tune while watering her roses, and Dad sat in a patio chair, reading the Financial Times, occasionally looking up at Mom with eyes full of warmth. That gaze was so incredibly tender, it was hard to believe it belonged to a ruthless corporate titan.
Suddenly, a memory from a night shortly after I married Chris three years ago surfaced. He had taken me to a colleague’s wedding, and someone asked what his wife did for a living. He had hesitated before answering, “She just stays at home and keeps house.”
It sounded exactly like he was describing a hired maid. My heart had ached a little that day, but I hadn’t said anything. Believing that as long as he treated me well, it didn’t matter how others viewed me.
But now I know. Even the scraps of affection he threw my way were nothing but calculated lies.
Lost in thought, my phone vibrated again. It was a text from Chris. Just one line.
“Jane, can we please meet and talk just once? I’m begging you.”
Staring at the text, I felt an indescribable, profound exhaustion and disgust. For three years, he had never once used the word beg with me. But now, he was pleading. And he wasn’t begging me, the person—he was begging my status. He wasn’t bowing to Jane, his wife. He was groveling to Jonathan Sinclair’s daughter.
I deleted the text without replying. Then I dialed another number.
“Nick, how is the Lockwood acquisition going?”
My brother Nick’s deep, steady voice came through. “Don’t worry, the paperwork is already moving. You know how fragile Lockwood’s cash flow is. We canceled contracts with their three biggest vendors as of yesterday, and the banks are already calling in their loans today. Give it a month, max. They’ll be filing for Chapter 11 bankruptcy.”
“A month is too long,” I said coldly. “End it in two weeks.”
Nick let out a chuckle. “Got it. Two weeks on the dot.”
I hung up and stared blankly at the golden leaves outside. A gust of wind blew, and the leaves cascaded down like a shower of gold coins.
Chris stood outside the rod iron gates of our Greenwich estate for a solid half day. Looking down from my second-floor bedroom window, he was an absolute wreck. His designer suit was wrinkled beyond recognition. His tie was gone, and his hair was a messy rat’s nest. He radiated a pathetic misery I had never seen from him before.
An autumn rainstorm hit without warning. Around three p.m., the sky abruptly turned pitch black, and heavy, fat raindrops began to pummel the ground. Chris didn’t have an umbrella, and he just stood there taking the brunt of the storm. Water streamed down his hair, and his suit jacket was soaked through and heavy. He looked exactly like a drowned rat, but he didn’t run, and he didn’t seek shelter. He just stood outside the gates, staring obsessively up at my second-floor window.
He knew I was watching him. I intentionally left the curtains open.
Our housekeeper, Mrs. Hughes, brought in a fresh pot of tea. She hesitated before speaking softly. “Miss Sinclair, that Mr. Lockwood outside. He’s been standing there for over three hours. It’s pouring rain. Should I at least send someone out with an umbrella?”
“No need,” I replied absent-mindedly, turning a page of my book. “If he wants to stand there, let him.”
Mrs. Hughes didn’t say another word. She set the teapot down and quietly left the room.
About thirty minutes later, Jonathan Sinclair returned home. When his black Maybach pulled up to the gates, the driver got out with a large umbrella to open the door. Seeing my father’s car, Chris charged toward it like a madman but was swiftly intercepted and pinned down by two security guards three steps away.
“Mr. Sinclair, sir, please let me see Jane just once. I’m begging you.”
Cutting through the sound of the driving rain, Chris’s voice was as desperate as a dying animal’s croak. Jonathan stood under his umbrella, looking at Chris in the downpour. His expression was completely devoid of emotion.
“Mr. Lockwood,” he said calmly. “I don’t recall ever having a son-in-law like you.”
With that, he walked straight past Chris and through the gates. Chris thrashed wildly, trying to chase after him, but the two guards gripped his arms like vises and dragged him back. His voice echoing in the rain morphed from a feral roar into a pathetic, gut-wrenching plea. “Jane! Jane, please just come out once! Let me explain! I’ll explain everything!”
I closed my book, stood up, and walked to the window. The rain battered the glass, blurring my vision, but Chris’s contorted figure in the storm looked like a hideous waterlogged painting.
I pushed the window open. The smell of rain, earth, and crushed leaves flooded the room.
Seeing the window open, Chris suddenly burst with adrenaline, shoving the guards away and throwing himself against the rod iron gate. Gripping the iron bars with both hands, he tilted his head all the way back to look up at me.
“Jane!” he screamed, his voice breaking over the roar of the rain. “You’re finally looking at me! Listen to me. Madison is really just an assistant. Nothing happened between us. She bought that dress with her own money, and she booked that suite on the corporate card behind my back. I swear to God I didn’t know anything!”
I leaned against the windowsill, looking down at him with icy detachment. “Are you done spouting garbage?”
Chris flinched, his mouth snapping shut.
“Chris,” I spoke very slowly, enunciating every word. “That suit you’re wearing right now? I went to the tailor and picked it out for you. Six thousand dollars. The cufflinks on your sleeves? I bought those for our third anniversary. Three thousand five hundred dollars. And those Italian leather Oxfords on your feet? I pawned the vintage diamond necklace my mother left me to buy those for you. Four thousand dollars.”
Chris looked down at his own clothes, his lips trembling violently.
“You stand outside my house wearing the clothes I bought, the cufflinks I bought, the shoes I bought—and you have the nerve to tell me you had nothing going on with another woman?” I mocked. “Do you think I’m an idiot?”
I couldn’t tell if it was rain or tears streaming down his face. His eyes were bloodshot red.
“Jane, I was wrong.” His voice was totally shattered, as if someone had drained all the life out of him. “I’m a piece of—I never should have told you to go to the lobby bar. I never should have let Madison sit next to me. I never should have neglected you for three years. Just give me one chance. Just one. I’ll fix it. I’ll fix everything.”
“Fix it?” I tilted my head. “Fix what?”
“I’ll fire Madison right now. I’ll kick her out,” he said, grinding his teeth. “And I’ll make my mother get on her knees and apologize to you. I’ll make her compensate you. Jane, let’s start over. Okay? Please. Just pretend none of this happened.”
Looking at him, a wave of intense, suffocating exhaustion washed over me.
“Chris, do you really think I’m divorcing you because of Madison Cole?”
He froze, staring blankly. “You’re not?”
I shook my head. “Madison was just the catalyst. If it wasn’t Madison, it would have been an Ashley, a Jessica, or a Chloe. The problem isn’t those women. The problem is you and me.”
Deep confusion laced Chris’s voice. “What did I do? Jane, I know I neglected you, but I swear on my life I never cheated on you. I never stepped out.”
“Right. You didn’t physically cheat,” I sneered. “You just shoved food into your mouth and kept your head down while your mother treated me like trash. You turned a blind eye when your sister ordered me around like a maid. In the countless moments when you should have stood by my side and defended me, you chose absolute silence.”
Chris’s lips parted, but no excuse came out.
“For the last three years, I tolerated everything I could—and even things I shouldn’t have.” My voice was eerily calm, as if I were narrating someone else’s life. “Do you know why I did it?”
“Why?”
“Because I thought you were worth it. I deluded myself into thinking the pathetic little scraps of affection you showed me were worth enduring the humiliation. But last night, I finally realized something. You aren’t worth a single damn thing.”
Chris’s hands slowly slipped off the iron bars. Like a man with his bones completely removed, he collapsed onto his knees in a puddle of muddy rainwater.
“Jane.” Over the sound of the rain, his voice echoed hollowly, like someone shouting from the bottom of a deep well, desperate and heavy.
“Go home,” I said, pulling the window shut. “The divorce papers will be at your office tomorrow.”
I drew the curtains, blocking out the violent storm and Chris’s miserable figure in one swift motion. I heard footsteps behind me. I turned around to see Dad standing at my bedroom door holding two warm cups of tea.
“Did you say everything you needed to say?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Jonathan walked over, handed me a cup, and sat down on the sofa, taking a sip. “He’s still kneeling out there. If this rain keeps up until tomorrow morning, he’s going to catch pneumonia.”
“Whether he freezes to death or not is none of my business.” I sat across from my dad, wrapping my freezing hands around the warm teacup, my tone sharp.
Jonathan looked at me with that complex, subtle gaze unique to an aging father. “When the pet rabbit you had as a kid died, you bawled your eyes out for a whole day. Now there’s a living, breathing man kneeling out in the storm, and you don’t even blink.”
“Rabbits don’t betray people. People do.”
My dad was silent for a moment before nodding quietly. “Yeah. My little girl has grown up a lot.”
The rain outside intensified, slamming against the window pane as if trying to shatter the glass. Chris’s silhouette was completely swallowed by the brutal downpour, leaving only a faint, kneeling outline visible. I kept my head down and drank my tea. I didn’t glance out the window a single time.
By nine p.m., the rain had stopped. Mrs. Hughes came in to report that Chris was still kneeling outside. He was soaked to the bone, his lips were turning blue, and he was shaking like a leaf.
“Let him keep kneeling,” I replied.
At eleven p.m., Margaret Lockwood showed up. Her luxury SUV braked hard outside the gates. As she stepped out, one of her high heels landed squarely in a mud puddle, almost making her trip, but she didn’t even bother wiping the mud off her skirt. She sprinted over to Chris, wailing, and tried to forcibly drag him to his feet.
“Son! Chris, stop kneeling! Let’s go home with Mom. Who the hell does Jane think she is? So what if she’s got a rich daddy? The Lockwood family doesn’t need garbage like her.”
Chris violently shoved her hands away. His voice was so hoarse it was barely intelligible. “Mom, please go home. I’m not leaving.”
“What are you doing kneeling here? That little—is throwing a tantrum and making you sit in the rain all night. I’m going in there to give her a piece of my mind.”
Margaret charged at the rod iron gates but was immediately blocked by the security guards. She banged on the iron bars, screaming wildly toward the house.
“Jane! Jane, get your ass out here right now! How dare you make my son stand in the rain, you cold-blooded psycho! Do you have no humanity? You’re a wife—it’s your job to worship your husband! What are you so damn mad about?”
At that exact moment, a window on the second floor violently swung open. It wasn’t my bedroom window. It was my mother’s.
Holding a massive bucket filled to the brim with ice water, Mom didn’t even look down before she tipped it right over.
Splash!
With a loud crash of water, Margaret was drenched in freezing ice water from head to toe.
“Say one more word.” Mom slammed the empty bucket onto the windowsill and spoke with lethal iciness. “Next time, it won’t just be water.”
Margaret stood completely frozen, half out of her mind from the shock. Water dripped from her hair. Her jaw hung open to scream back. But the moment she met my mother’s murderous glare, she couldn’t force a single syllable out and snapped her mouth shut.
In her youth, my mother was the valedictorian of Wharton Business School. Though she had focused on the family after marrying Jonathan, she was never a woman to be trifled with. A few rival executives who tried to scheme against Sinclair Holdings had been quietly and utterly obliterated behind the scenes—all by my mother. A cheap, loudmouthed socialite like Margaret was out of her league.
“Now that the rain has stopped and you’ve had your shower,” Mom dusted her hands off. “If your son wants to kneel, let him kneel. If you want to kneel, get down next to him. But remember one thing. The road in front of our gates is private property owned by Sinclair Holdings. If you two are still squatting there by tomorrow morning, I’m sending you a bill for trespassing and land use.”
Margaret’s face cycled through colors, her entire body trembling violently for a long time, but she ultimately didn’t say a word. She grabbed Chris’s arm, trying to pull him up again, but he didn’t budge an inch.
“Mom,” he spoke in a hoarse voice the size of a mosquito. “Please, just go, Chris. Go.” He sobbed, his head hung low in defeat. “Please. I’m begging you.”
Margaret’s eyes flushed a furious red. Staring at her son kneeling in the mud, her expression shifted from rage to pity and then to a horrifying realization of despair. Her hand slowly slipped away. Stumbling, she walked back to her SUV. The engine started, and the red taillights faded into the darkness.
Chris was left entirely alone outside the gates, still kneeling. The moonlight cast a long, pathetic shadow behind him.
I closed the curtains and walked into my ensuite bathroom. The hot water cascaded over my body, and steam filled the air. Closing my eyes, a memory from a summer day three years ago oddly overlapped in my mind. I had just graduated from college and was working an admin job at the front desk of Lockwood Enterprises. Chris, who was the VP at the time, would greet me every morning when he walked by. Sometimes he bought me coffee on nights I worked late. He brought me dinner. He spent three months relentlessly courting me, whispering sweet nothings about how I was the best woman in the world.
On our wedding day, he swore he would only ever have eyes for me for the rest of his life.
Back then, I genuinely believed him.
I turned off the shower, dried off, put on my pajamas, and stepped out. The screen of my phone on the nightstand lit up. A text from Chris.
“Jane, I’m sorry. I’ll keep waiting outside your house until you agree to meet me.”
I deleted the text immediately, turned off the lights, and lay down in bed. The moonlight outside was unusually bright, slicing through a gap in the curtains and painting a silver line across the floor. As soon as I closed my eyes, I fell asleep. It was a deep, dreamless sleep.
The next morning, Chris was still kneeling in the exact same spot. His lips were cracked and bleeding, and his complexion was as pale as a ghost. His hair was a bird’s nest. His suit was entirely ruined, having endured the freezing autumn dew all night. He was shivering uncontrollably, his lips a dark, bruised purple.
I stood by the window, looking down at him for a long while before turning and heading downstairs. Mrs. Hughes was preparing breakfast. When she saw me, she kept glancing toward the front door, clearly hesitating.
“Miss Sinclair, Mr. Lockwood outside—”
“Pack a breakfast to-go,” I instructed. “And please call Mr. Sterling and tell him to come over.”
Mrs. Hughes paused, then nodded.
When I opened the front door, blinding morning sunlight poured in. The air was still damp with the scent of last night’s rain. At the sound of the door opening, Chris jerked his head up. A fleeting spark of hope flashed in his dull, hazy eyes.
“Jane,” his voice sounded like sandpaper grating against metal, barely understandable.
I walked close to the iron gate and looked down at him. A night of wind, rain, and freezing cold had stripped him of anything resembling human dignity. Looking at him huddled there like an abandoned stray dog, I spoke.
“Come inside, eat some breakfast, then sign the papers, and let’s end this.”
Chris’s eyes immediately welled with tears. He scrambled to get up, but having knelt all night, his legs were completely numb. He stumbled two or three times before the security guards finally grabbed his arms and practically dragged him into the living room.
As his dripping wet body collapsed onto the Italian leather sofa, a dark, dirty water stain spread across the premium upholstery. I tossed a manila envelope onto the coffee table in front of him.
“The divorce settlement. Sign it, and we’re done.”
Chris didn’t even look at the documents. With bloodshot eyes like a rabbit’s, he stared solely at me, his trembling lips parting. “Jane, is this—is this really irreversible?”
“It is.”
“I’ll change everything.” His voice shook with desperate agony. “I really will fix it. I’ll do whatever you tell me to. I’ll make my mother get on her knees and beg for your forgiveness. I’ll kick Madison out of New York forever. Let me—let me court you all over again from the beginning, okay?”
I leaned back against the sofa cushions and looked at him calmly. His eyes were completely bloodshot, deep, dark bags sagging beneath them. He looked like he had aged a decade overnight. His knuckles were white as he clutched his knees, his entire body experiencing micro tremors.
I’ll admit, in that fleeting moment, my resolve almost softened for a split second. Regardless of everything, he was the man I had loved for three years.
But that pathetic sliver of sympathy was entirely shattered by his next sentence.
“Jane,” he clenched his jaw. “If you’re absolutely set on the divorce, then please—Lockwood Enterprises—”
I let out a scoffing laugh. So, right up to the bitter end, all he actually cared about was his company.
“What about Lockwood Enterprises?” I asked, feigning ignorance.
“Your brother pulled all our vendor contracts yesterday. The banks are breathing down our necks, demanding immediate loan repayment.” His voice shrank into an incredibly pathetic, groveling whine. “Jane, you can’t do this. Lockwood is the company my father built with his blood, sweat, and tears. If you do this—”
“If I do this, what?” I leaned forward sharply, cutting him off. “When you told me to go eat in the lobby bar. When your mother pointed her finger at me and called me a middle-class gold digger. When your sister threw her dirty underwear at me and told me to hand-wash it—did you ever, even once, think to yourself, ‘I can’t do this to her’?”
Chris’s face turned a rigid white.
“You know better than anyone how your family treated me.” I leaned back comfortably again. “The reason I never fought back wasn’t because I’m a pushover. It was because I couldn’t be bothered to argue with roaches. But now I’m done holding back. What exactly are you going to do about it?”
Chris dropped his head, his shoulders trembling violently.
“So—” His voice cracked. “You only called me in here to get revenge.”
“Revenge?” I shook my head. “No. I’m just taking back what’s mine.”
I flipped to the last page of the divorce agreement and tapped the signature line. “Sign it.”
Chris’s hand shook uncontrollably as he gripped the pen. The nib hovered over the paper several times, unable to scratch out his full name.
“I have one condition,” he said suddenly, looking up at me. “If I sign this—don’t touch Lockwood Enterprises.”
“You are in no position to negotiate conditions with me,” I spat coldly.
“Jane, I’m not—”
“Lockwood Enterprises is being swallowed whole.” I cut him off. “Not because I’m trying to swallow Lockwood whole. It was a business decision made by the Sinclair Holdings Board. Didn’t you realize your core business partners were all Sinclair subsidiaries? Now that the partnerships are terminated, do you honestly think your cash flow can survive for even two weeks? Even if I don’t lift a finger, the banks are going to slit your throats first.”
Chris’s face burned down to perfect ash. “You—” his lips trembled. “You planned this from the very beginning, didn’t you?”
“Planned this?” I burst out laughing. “Chris, if I planned this from the beginning, I never would have married you three years ago. Do you think I’m crazy enough to hide my identity and crawl into the Lockwood household just to be abused by your mother? To clean up after your sister? To sit home alone every night while you paraded other women around at banquets?”
Chris’s mouth snapped shut.
“I gave your family three years. I waited for you to see me for who I really was. But you didn’t. You were so hyperfocused on bullying me that you never even bothered to look at who was standing right in front of you.”
I stood up and walked to the window. The oak leaves blanketed the yard. Sunlight broke through the canopy, creating a dappled pattern of light and shadow over the golden carpet of leaves.
“Sign it,” I said without turning around. “If you sign it, I’ll at least spare you from complete public humiliation. If you don’t—tomorrow morning’s Wall Street Journal front page, take your pick.”
A heavy silence lingered behind me. Eventually, the sound of a pen scratching against paper reached my ears. It was a small, powerless sound—like a dead leaf being swept away by the autumn wind.
“I’m done.” His voice was hollow, echoing from the bottom of a dry well.
I turned around, walked over, and glanced at the divorce agreement. The sloppy, jagged signature looked absolutely nothing like Chris’s previously confident, arrogant handwriting.
“Good.” I closed the folder. “You can leave now.”
Chris stood up. His legs were still wobbling. He had to lean heavily on the armrest just to find his balance. He looked toward me, his lips moving as if he wanted to deliver some grand final parting words. “Jane, I—”
“No need to apologize,” I cut him off. “Some words are just garbage spoken to alleviate your own guilt. They mean absolutely nothing to the person hearing them.”
Chris swallowed the words that had reached the back of his throat and turned around. He stumbled step by step toward the front door. Just as he reached it, he stopped abruptly. Without looking back, he muttered in a tiny voice, “For the last three years, my feelings for you—that part was real.”
The door clicked shut.
Standing alone in the center of the living room, I tightened my grip on the divorce papers. That cheap, shallow love smells like pure garbage, I muttered to the empty room, but no one answered. Only the rustling of the oak leaves outside the window responded.
Three days after the divorce was signed, Margaret Lockwood showed up at the Greenwich estate. She wasn’t alone. She dragged Edward along with her. The two of them stood in the center of the living room. Margaret was wearing a drab dark maroon designer outfit, her face caked in white powder that failed to hide the massive dark circles under her eyes. Edward’s hair had turned half white, and he stood hunched over like a condemned prisoner hiding behind his wife.
I asked Mrs. Hughes to bring out some tea. Margaret didn’t sit down, nor did she accept the cup. She took one look at my face, her facial muscles twitching violently, before she collapsed to her knees on the marble floor. A dull thud echoed through the room.
“Jane.” Margaret burst into tears, her eyes bloodshot red. “I’m begging you. Please, for the sake of the three years we spent together as family, just save Lockwood Enterprises.”
Holding my teacup, I looked down at her. For three years, this woman who had walked around with her nose practically touching the ceiling in my presence was now kneeling at my feet, crying out my name. The woman who abused me for my poor background, mocked my cheap wedding registry, complained I didn’t know how to pour wine properly, and degraded me for not getting pregnant. In front of relatives, she treated me like a stray dog Chris had dragged in. In front of her country club friends, she treated me like a cheap, disposable maid.
I set my teacup down and took a step to the side. I refused to accept her groveling.
“Mrs. Lockwood, you’ve got the wrong address.”
“I don’t have the wrong address.” Margaret bawled. The tears carved two streaks through her heavy makeup. “Jane, I know you suffered these last three years. It’s all my fault. I was blind. I was a greedy snob. Beat me, curse me—I’ll take it all. Just please save Lockwood. It’s the company Chris’s father built with his blood and sweat.”
Edward chimed in, his eyes red, bowing deeply with a cracked voice. “Jane, I’ll get on my knees, too. Please.”
He started to drop to his knees as well.
“That’s enough.” My voice wasn’t loud, but Edward’s knees froze in midair. They never touched the floor. “I am no longer your daughter-in-law. If elders kneel to me, it’s just going to bring me bad karma.”
I leaned against the arm of the sofa and spoke indifferently. “The acquisition of Lockwood Enterprises isn’t something I control on a whim. It is a legitimate, calculated business decision by Sinclair Holdings. Begging me here won’t change a thing.”
“It will change things. It will!” Margaret crawled forward on her knees. “Chairman Sinclair is your father. If you just say the word, everything can be fixed. Jane, tell me what you want. I’ll give you anything. We’ll sell the Hamptons house. I’ll sell all my jewelry.”
“In the past, didn’t you call me a cheap gold digger who didn’t know her place?” I interrupted, flashing a bright smile. “But now, the entire Lockwood family’s lifeline depends on that cheap gold digger.”
Margaret’s face burned beet red as if she had been slapped. Her lips quivered violently, but she couldn’t string a sentence together.
Edward let out a deep, heavy sigh from beside her. He sounded like he had aged twenty years. “Jane, your mother-in-law, Margaret, has a wicked mouth, and she did a lot of things to make you hate her. But she was still your mother-in-law. When you married into the Lockwood family, we put a roof over your head and fed you. It’s not like we starved you.”
“You didn’t starve me. Sure.” I turned my head and glared at him. “Mr. Lockwood, the room I slept in wasn’t the master suite. It was the guest room. I cooked my own meals—and on top of that, I cooked for your entire family. When your wife was screaming obscenities at me, did you ever say a single word to stop her? When your daughter looked at me like a parasite, did you ever show an ounce of concern?”
All color drained from Edward’s face, his lips parting silently.
“Was it due to your immense charity that I wasn’t kicked out onto the street?” I stood up, looking down at the kneeling Margaret, and added, “That is not called charity. You just milked me for my usefulness until there was nothing left to exploit.”
Margaret’s tears fell harder. She suddenly lunged forward and hugged my legs. “Jane, I’m begging you. I’ll bash my head into the floor if I have to.”
She actually slammed her forehead against the marble floor. Thunk. A sickening sound echoed. I furrowed my brow, stepping back to pull my legs out of her grasp.
“Mrs. Lockwood, bashing your head open won’t change anything. The acquisition of Lockwood is strictly a business decision. It has nothing to do with my personal feelings. Instead of wasting time here, you should be figuring out how to pay the severance for your employees who are about to be out on the street. Try to go bankrupt with a shred of dignity.”
Margaret collapsed onto the floor like a boneless heap, her shoulders heaving violently.
Right at that moment, a loud commotion erupted outside the front doors.
“Let me go! I said let me in! I’m carrying Chris Lockwood’s baby! Tell the Lockwood family to get their asses out here right now!”
It was a sharp, hysterical, crazed voice. Madison Cole.
I raised an eyebrow and looked at Mrs. Hughes. Catching my drift, she walked over and pulled the massive front doors open.
Madison stormed into the living room like a hurricane. She was wearing a crumpled maternity dress. Her hair was a tangled mess, and her makeup was smeared, making her look unhinged. Judging by her swelling belly, she had to be a few months along.
Spotting Madison, Margaret sprang up from the floor like she had been electrocuted. “You disgusting—how dare you show your face here?”
Madison scoffed, putting one hand on her hip and pointing at her belly with the other. “Why wouldn’t I be here? I have the Lockwood family bloodline right in here. If you people don’t compensate me properly, I’m going to have this kid and raise it myself. Then the whole East Coast will know the precious Lockwood heir is a bastard child.”
Margaret’s face went chalk white, her lips quivering. She whipped her head around to glare at Edward. “Do you hear her? Do you hear that? This is the trap your perfect son walked right into.”
Edward was equally pale. He stared at Madison’s stomach with a mix of horror and utter disgust. But Madison was unfazed. In fact, she looked incredibly smug, pushing her belly forward as she swaggered over to the sofa, plopped down, and crossed her legs.
“Mrs. Lockwood, don’t blow a gasket. I’m the one who’s going to carry on the Lockwood legacy. You were always whining about wanting a grandchild. Well, here it is. Shouldn’t you be thrilled?”
Margaret shook with rage. She pointed a trembling finger at Madison, stuttering for a long time before she could finally squeeze out, “You brazen little—you have zero shame.”
Madison chuckled. It was a cold, chilling laugh. “Look at the state I’m in. Does shame put food on the table? Chris knocked me up, and now he wants to wipe his hands clean and pretend it never happened. No way in hell. He either marries me, or he pays me a one-million-dollar settlement. Otherwise, I’m having this kid and leaving it right in the middle of the Lockwood corporate lobby.”
“I heard the police took you away. How the hell did you get out?” Margaret screeched.
“I made bail,” Madison shrugged, brushing it off casually. “Pregnant women get special legal protections. You know—why? Are you disappointed?”
Margaret’s eyes looked like they were about to pop out of her skull. “How do we even know that thing inside you is Chris’s? A cheap who sleeps around like you—God knows whose bastard you’re carrying.”
“We’ll just do a paternity test,” Madison cut her off, adding effortlessly. “Once the baby is born, we’ll run a DNA test. If it really is Chris’s, you people are going to have to treat me like royalty.”
Margaret was so choked with rage, her face turned a deep, furious crimson.
I stood in the corner, thoroughly enjoying this live-action soap opera. This Madison Cole was vastly more entertaining than I had initially given her credit for. She fully knew Lockwood Enterprises was going bankrupt. Yet here she was, clinging on like a leech, trying to suck out their last drop of blood.
Suddenly, Madison whipped her head around to look at me. Her expression was a complicated mix of emotions. “You’re pretty smart, Jane. Your timing to jump ship was a work of art.”
“Miss Cole, we aren’t friends,” I set my cup down with a light laugh. “You came here today looking for the Lockwood family. Since they’re all gathered here, you guys can sort out your own mess yourselves.”
“Aren’t you mad?” Madison tilted her head. “I stole your husband and got pregnant with his baby. Don’t you want to rip me to shreds?”
“Rip you to shreds? Why?” I let out a snort. “Miss Cole, the person you should be mad at is yourself. If I had announced I was the Sinclair heiress from the start, do you think you would have even had a chance to get close to Chris? You think you’re so special, but you’re just a cheap pawn he used and threw away. If Chris knew his wife was Jonathan Sinclair’s daughter, do you really think he would have looked twice at a piece of trash like you?”
Madison’s face changed drastically. She glared at me intensely for three seconds before suddenly breaking into a bizarre, cackling giggle. “You’re right, Jane.” She stood up and patted her stomach. “That’s exactly why this is the only leverage I have left. Even a dying camel is bigger than a horse. Even if Lockwood is going bankrupt, they still have some cash hidden somewhere. I have to find a way to survive.”
With that, she turned on her heel and marched toward the front door. As she brushed past Margaret, she intentionally stopped and whispered something into her ear. All the color instantly drained from Margaret’s face.
Madison walked out the door with the victorious swagger of a conquering general.
Margaret stood frozen in place before suddenly bursting into a hysterical, maniacal sob. She collapsed to the floor, pounding the marble tiles, screaming at the top of her lungs. “Oh God, my life is ruined! What terrible sin did the Lockwood family commit in a past life to deserve this?”
Edward walked over, reaching out to help her up, but then pulled his hand back. He looked up at me. His eyes were filled with absolute pleading. “Jane, please. Just once.”
I stood up and walked toward the window, turning my back on them. “Mrs. Hughes, please show our guests out.”
Mrs. Hughes stepped forward, politely but firmly gesturing for Edward to leave. Margaret’s wailing grew fainter until it completely vanished beyond the heavy front doors.
Two months later, the grand penthouse ballroom of the ultra-luxurious Apex Tower in downtown Manhattan was blindingly bright with dazzling lights. Tonight was Sinclair Holdings’ Corporate Vision Declaration Gala—the first major event since the successful acquisition of Lockwood Enterprises, and my official inauguration ceremony as the Executive Vice President of Sinclair Holdings.
Hundreds of the most famous and powerful figures in corporate America packed the ballroom to the brim. I stood in front of a full-length mirror, smoothing out the hem of my gown one last time. The woman in the mirror wore a stunning black velvet evening gown that elegantly exposed her collarbones, paired with a massive diamond necklace gifted by my father. My hair was styled in a sleek, sophisticated updo, highlighting a long, graceful neckline. My makeup was glamorous but tasteful, accented by a bold, striking red lip.
It had been three years. Three years since I dressed exactly as I wanted, as my true self. When I married Chris three years ago, Margaret had complained that designer wedding dresses were a waste of money and forced me to wear a cheap out-of-season rental. On my wedding day, she sneered at me, saying I looked like a desperate second wife.
Back then, I couldn’t say a word. But now, I wore whatever I damn well pleased.
“Jane,” a voice called from behind me. I turned to see Nick leaning against the doorframe, looking sharp in a navy bespoke suit with a perfectly tied Windsor knot.
“Looking good,” I teased, giving him a quick once-over. “Got your eye on anyone tonight? Want me to set you up?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Nick rolled his eyes. “Dad sent me to check if you were ready. All the guests are here. Let’s go.”
I took Nick’s arm, and we walked into the ballroom. The moment we pushed through the double doors, the roaring chatter of the room instantly died down to a whisper. Every single pair of eyes locked onto me. Awe, curiosity, blatant sycophancy, shameless calculation—I didn’t care about any of it.
Jonathan Sinclair, standing at the podium, caught my eye and gestured for me. I walked up and took my place beside him.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Jonathan began. His voice wasn’t loud, but the entire ballroom held its breath. “Thank you all for attending the Sinclair Holdings Vision Declaration Gala tonight. I have two major announcements to make.”
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the crowd.
“First, Sinclair Holdings has successfully finalized the acquisition and restructuring of Lockwood Enterprises. As of today, the former Lockwood Enterprises will be rebranded as Sinclair Tech, and my son, Nicholas Sinclair, will be stepping in as the interim CEO.”
Thunderous applause erupted from the floor.
“Second,” Jonathan turned to look at me, his eyes overflowing with immense pride. “My daughter, Jane Sinclair, will officially assume the role of Executive Vice President of Sinclair Holdings, overseeing Sinclair Tech and our global international operations.”
Deafening applause shook the ballroom. I smiled gracefully, giving a polite, elegant nod to the crowd.
As my eyes swept across the room, my gaze suddenly locked with a man’s.
It was Chris.
He was standing in the darkest, most obscure corner of the ballroom, wearing a cheap, ill-fitting suit. His tie was loosened and hanging sloppily around his neck. His cheeks were completely sunken, his cheekbones jutting out harshly. A shadow of dark stubble covered his jaw, and he looked so frail and shrunken it was as if half of him had vanished.
He was holding a champagne flute, just staring at me. His eyes were a chaotic, sticky mess of emotions—shock, regret, agony, and a pathetic, lingering trace of longing.
I pulled my gaze away and didn’t look at him a second time.
After the speeches, the networking reception began. Holding a glass of champagne, I navigated through the crowd, exchanging greetings. Nick stuck close by my side, whispering in my ear to remind me who was who and which clients needed special attention. I clinked glasses with everyone, offering flawless, polished social pleasantries. I moved exactly like someone who had been born and raised to rule this room.
“Jane.”
A voice called from behind me. I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Chris walked up beside me. He was half a head taller than me, but with his hunched posture and slumped shoulders, he looked incredibly small and pathetic.
“Mr. Lockwood,” I turned around and offered a perfectly polite mechanical smile. “It’s been a while.”
Chris’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He opened his mouth, struggling for a moment before, “You look absolutely beautiful tonight.”
“Thank you.” I brushed past him, continuing to greet the other guests.
He stood frozen in place, his hand holding the champagne glass trembling violently.
Thirty minutes later, as I stepped out of the powder room after touching up my lipstick, I saw Chris leaning against the wall in the hallway. He was clearly waiting for me.
“Jane, could you give me just five minutes?” His voice was cracked and dry, his eyes filled with a desperate, agonizing plea. The bright hallway lights brutally highlighted every new, exhausted wrinkle on his prematurely aged face.
“If you have something to say, say it here.”
I stopped walking and leaned against the opposite wall about ten feet away. The vastness of that ten-foot gap seemed to finally register with him, and his eyes completely shattered.
“I—” He licked his chapped lips. “The baby Madison was carrying. It wasn’t mine. You know Lockwood went bankrupt, right? My dad had to sell his childhood home just to pay off the debts. My mom is working as a living maid for some rich family on the Upper East Side.” His voice grew smaller and smaller. “My sister dropped out of NYU and moved out of state to work a minimum wage factory job. I’m—I’m living in a three-hundred-dollar windowless closet in Queens right now.”
He mumbled as if giving me a status report—or perhaps just talking to himself.
“Before I came here tonight, I thought I had already hit absolute rock bottom. I thought I couldn’t get any more pathetic. But the moment I saw you standing up there on that stage in the spotlight as the Vice President, it hit me. I finally realized what true devastation feels like.”
I looked at him in total silence.
“Jane.” He snapped his head up. Tears pooled in his bloodshot eyes. “The single stupidest thing I ever did in my entire life was losing you.”
The hallway was quiet, the muffled chatter and clinking glasses from the ballroom serving as a distant soundtrack to the silence. Watching Chris’s lips tremble, his eyes rimmed with red, a memory from three years ago suddenly flashed in my mind. He had come home from a networking event completely wasted, stumbling through the door. I laid him on the couch and brought him a glass of honey water. After taking a sip, he suddenly grabbed my hand and said, “Jane, I’m going to make so much money, and I’m going to buy you the best things in the entire world.”
My heart had warmed so much that night. I felt like I could endure any humiliation for him.
Looking back now, the “best things in the world” he promised were never what I actually wanted.
“Chris,” I finally spoke. My voice was chillingly calm. “You didn’t lose me. You threw me away with your own two hands.”
He flinched as if a massive boulder had just crushed his chest.
“When you were chasing me, you said you loved my sweet, obedient nature. When your mother was treating me like a stray dog, you wanted me to stay sweet and obedient. When you put Madison in the VIP family seat and kicked me out to the lobby, you genuinely believed I would just smile sweetly and take it, didn’t you?”
I took one step forward. The sharp click of my heel echoed coldly in the hallway.
“But did you ever, even for a second, consider the truth? My sweetness and my obedience weren’t because I’m an idiot. It was because I was forcing myself to tolerate you.”
“Jane, I’m—”
“Done tolerating.” I cut him off. “And not because I’m Jonathan Sinclair’s daughter. Simply because you are no longer worth the effort. I am not someone meant to be stepped on. I am someone meant to be cherished and placed on a pedestal.”
Tears finally spilled from Chris’s eyes, dropping heavily to the floor. He dropped his head and sobbed, his shoulders violently shaking.
I gave him one last look before turning my back on him without a shred of hesitation, heading toward the ballroom doors.
“Jane Sinclair!” he screamed my real name from behind me, his voice tearing. “For the rest of my life, will I really never have a second chance to meet you?”
I stopped walking, but I didn’t turn around.
“Chris,” I said. “When you’ve walked a road all the way to a dead end, you can never go back.”
I pushed open the ballroom doors, and the dazzling opulent world opened up before me once again. The elite of high society were clinking glasses and smiling elegantly while servers bustled about. No one knew what had just transpired in the hallway, and no one cared.
Nick spotted me and walked over, handing me a fresh glass of champagne. “Everything okay?”
“Of course.” I took the glass and took a sip.
“Glad to hear it.” He patted my shoulder lightly. “Oh, by the way, Dad says to get ready. The contract signing ceremony is up next. You’re the star of the show tonight.”
“Got it.”
I walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows and looked down at the New York City skyline. The endless rivers of headlights and the brilliant neon glow of the city illuminated the night like a sea of jewels.
Three years ago, I hid my identity and entered the Lockwood family, believing I had found a permanent sanctuary. Three years later, that fake sanctuary had crumbled to dust. But I had reclaimed something infinitely more important.
I had reclaimed myself.
My phone buzzed. It was a text from Margaret Lockwood. I briefly scanned it—a pathetic, groveling message about how she regretted everything she ever did to me, begging me to come visit her when I had free time. She complained about working as a maid for a massive family on the Upper East Side, crying that her hands were cracked and bleeding from doing laundry every day.
I left it on read and immediately deleted it.
Another text came through right after. It was from Chris. Just four words: “I wish you well.”
I stared at that text for exactly three seconds. Then, without a hint of hesitation, I blocked him.
My reflection stared back at me in the glass of the window. The black velvet gown, the diamond necklace, the bold red lips. Holding my champagne glass, I looked like a queen who had just been crowned.
“Jane!” my dad called out to me from across the room. “The signing ceremony is starting!”
“Coming.”
I turned around and walked toward the red velvet-draped stage, my heels clicking sharply and confidently against the floor. Every step I took was steady, my path forward was crystal clear. Behind me, thousands of brilliant lights flickered. But in front of me, there was only my own, completely unhindered path.
Suddenly, a quote I had heard a long time ago crossed my mind. The wounds you suffer will calcify into the strongest bones in your body. And those bones will support you as you walk the path others are too weak to finish.
Up on the stage, the Sinclair Holdings logo shone brilliantly under the spotlights. I picked up the Mont Blanc pen and signed my name with bold, sweeping strokes on the final page of the contract.
Executive Vice President, Sinclair Holdings — Jane Sinclair.
Starting today, it was a brand new chapter.
So let me ask you something tonight.
Have you ever hidden who you truly are because you were afraid someone wouldn’t love the real you? Have you ever swallowed insults and endured humiliation, believing that if you just tried hard enough, they would finally see your worth?
Jane did that for three years. She shrank herself to fit a family that never wanted her. She cooked and cleaned and gave away her inheritance, all for a man who couldn’t even save her a seat at his own table.
But the moment she stopped tolerating and started being—everything changed.
Here’s the truth: You don’t need to be a billionaire’s daughter to have dignity. You don’t need a dramatic ballroom reveal to prove your worth. You just need to stop accepting treatment that makes you feel small.
Because the people who truly love you won’t need you to hide.
And the ones who do? They don’t deserve to know your real name.
What would you have done in Jane’s shoes? Would you have stayed quiet for three more years—or walked out the moment they showed you who they really were?