Chapter 3 - The Young Secretary
At eleven in the morning, I decided to pay a visit to Whitlock Precision’s headquarters in the industrial park off Route 28. I wore a tailored cream coat, dark sunglasses, and walked through the front glass doors with the quiet confidence of someone who held the deed to the ground beneath the carpet. The reception area had recently been redecorated with plush velvet chairs and an enormous, garish portrait of Cole shaking hands with local politicians. Sitting behind the polished quartz desk was Brielle Dawson. She looked even younger than nineteen in the harsh daylight, her platinum blonde hair styled in loose waves, her acrylic nails clicking loudly against a keyboard as she scrolled through online designer shoe boutiques. She glanced up, chewing gum with open nonchalance, clearly unaware of who I was until her eyes drifted down to the silver wedding band I still wore on my left hand. Her expression shifted instantly from boredom to a smirk of arrogant amusement. She sat back, folded her arms, and tilted her chin up, looking at me like an annoying customer who had shown up after closing hours. “Can I help you, Maren?” she asked, deliberately omitting my last name to establish dominance. “Cole isn't in right now. He’s out at an executive lunch with the procurement directors from Apex Aerospace. They’re finalizing a twelve-million-dollar component contract, so he really shouldn’t be disturbed by domestic issues.” I looked at her, noticing the diamond pendant glittering on her throat—a piece I recognized from Cole’s personal credit card statement from two weeks ago, which he had falsely categorized as a client entertainment expense. I didn't raise my voice or offer the slightest show of anger. Instead, I calmly walked past her desk toward the inner double doors that led into the executive suite. Brielle shot out of her ergonomic chair, her heels clicking aggressively on the tile as she hurried to block my path, her youthful face flushing with sudden indignation. She warned me that I was on private corporate property and that Cole had explicitly instructed her to call building security if I attempted to make an embarrassing scene. I stopped inches from her face, pulled off my sunglasses, and looked directly into her wide, mascara-coated eyes. I asked her if she had ever actually read the master lease hanging in the regulatory binder behind her desk, or if Cole had simply told her that he was the king of the castle. She scoffed, crossing her arms defensively, and told me that Cole owned everything I saw, that I was just an aging, bitter ex-wife who couldn't accept that a man like Cole needed someone vibrant to match his upward trajectory. As she spoke, Patricia Whitlock walked out of the executive conference room carrying a designer shopping bag, evidently having spent her morning using Cole’s company card for retail therapy. When Patricia saw me standing in the lobby, her face hardened into a mask of theatrical disapproval. She hurried over, placing a protective hand on Brielle’s shoulder as though shielding an innocent daughter from a deranged intruder. Patricia sneered, telling me that showing up at Cole’s workplace was thoroughly undignified and proved beyond any doubt that Cole had made the right decision to cut me loose. She warned me that if I didn't leave immediately, she would instruct security to escort me out into the rain like a common trespasser. I looked at both of them—the vain matriarch and the foolish young mistress—reveling in their shallow, stolen triumph. I took a slow breath, smiled warmly, and told them to enjoy the lobby while the air conditioning was still operational. Before either of them could utter another insult, I turned on my heel and walked out the glass doors, leaving them laughing mockingly behind me, blissfully unaware of the legal storm front gathering over their heads.
