Chapter 1 - THE CRACK ACROSS THE PORCELAIN
The private dining salon of the Harrington Club smelled of charred dry-aged ribeye, French tuberose, and distilled arrogance. Solange Whitaker sat three chairs away from her husband of eleven years, watching Bianca Harrow trace the rim of her vintage Pinot Noir. Bianca had spent thirty-six months graduating from Griffith’s ambitious corporate consultant to the shadow mistress managing his calendar, his collar size, and his public image. Griffith thought his quiet wife saw none of it; in reality, Solange had spent six months hiring forensic accountants instead of private detectives. When Bianca stood before Chicago’s most ruthless real estate moguls and claimed Solange was a trophy who never earned her seat, Solange spoke two icy words: “Sit down.” Bianca’s hand whipped across the air, the crack of flesh echoing off mahogany walls. Solange’s cheek burned crimson. Griffith never even stood up; he merely glared at his wife with venomous annoyance, whispering, “Solange, don’t make a scene.” Touching the sting on her jaw, Solange rose with terrifying composure, meeting her husband’s gaze with the icy knowing of a predator who had built the very trap he was currently strutting through.
