Chapter 7 - The Mistress's Plea
Ten minutes later, the private elevator doors opened into my executive reception foyer, and Vanessa Caldwell was escorted in by two security officers.
The glamorous, arrogant woman in the emerald satin gown from the previous evening was completely gone.
In her place stood a disheveled twenty-six-year-old in wrinkled jeans, an oversized beige trench coat, and flat sneakers, clutching a beat-up designer purse against her chest.
Her blonde hair was knotted, and her mascara was smeared around eyes that were red and swollen from crying.
"Evelyn... Ms. Whitmore," Vanessa stammered, stopping ten feet from my desk, looking around the palatial office in absolute terror.
"Sit down, Vanessa," I said evenly, gesturing toward the guest chair opposite mine.
Vanessa sat on the edge of the leather cushion, her knees knocking together beneath her coat.
"I... I came to apologize," she whispered, her voice trembling like a dry leaf.
"I didn't know the truth about Nathaniel. I swear to God, I didn't know! He told me he was worth billions! He told me you were just an orphan he took pity on!"
"You knew he was married, Vanessa," I replied, my voice cutting through her excuses like a surgical blade.
"You knew he had a wife who cooked his dinners, ironed his shirts, and stood beside him for four years. You didn't care about his character; you only cared about his checkbook."
Vanessa broke down into heavy, ragged sobs, burying her face in her hands.
"I was stupid! I was greedy! But please, Evelyn... think about the baby! I'm carrying his child! Nathaniel has no money left, his mother won't answer my calls, and my landlord served me with an eviction notice this morning!"
She pulled a crumpled medical envelope from her purse, sliding it across the mahogany desk with shaking fingers.
"This is the ultrasound from yesterday. Eight weeks pregnant. I don't have health insurance, Evelyn. I don't have anywhere to go."
I looked down at the white envelope, feeling the weight of an unborn, innocent life hanging in the quiet room.
I picked up the document, reviewing the medical confirmation, then looked up into the desperate, ruined face of the woman who had tried to force me to kneel on a marble floor twelve hours earlier.
"You asked me to apologize for being barren, Vanessa," I reminded her softly, watching her flinch in shame.
"I am so sorry..." she sobbed, pressing her forehead against the wood of my desk.
"I will get on my knees right now! I will beg your forgiveness in front of the whole building! Just please don't let my baby starve!"
"Get up, Vanessa," I commanded firmly, leaning forward.
"I will not make you kneel. I am not Nathaniel, and I am not Margaret Ashford. Cruelty is a currency that bankrupts everyone who spends it."
I opened a leather checkbook, wrote a certified bank draft, and slid it across the desk toward her.
Vanessa stared at the numbers through her tears: twenty-five thousand dollars, drawn from the Whitmore Family Philanthropic Trust.
"This will cover your prenatal medical care and your rent for six months," I told her, my voice devoid of malice or warmth.
"Under one absolute condition."
Vanessa grabbed the check with trembling hands, nodding frantically.
"Anything! Name it!"
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"You will sign a full affidavit detailing Nathaniel's corporate wire fraud, and you will leave Chicago before sunset," I said, holding her gaze.
"Raise your child with honesty, Vanessa. Because if that baby grows up with the greed of its father, all the money in the world won't save it."
