I pointed to the massive wall in the center of the living room. “Leave that.”
It was our five-foot-tall wedding portrait. I handed my daughter to Khloe, pulled a thick, red permanent marker from my purse, and walked over to the canvas. With two violent, aggressive strokes, I drew a massive, bleeding ‘X’ directly over Julian’s smiling, triumphant face.
I turned my back on the defaced portrait, reclaimed my child, and walked out the door. The trap was set.
Khloe’s text vibrated in my pocket three hours later: “He’s at the hospital. They just told him you’re gone. The dominoes are falling.”
Chapter 3: The Collapse of an Empire
Over the next forty-eight hours, I operated from an undisclosed, high-security postpartum retreat on the Upper East Side. While my uterus painfully contracted, forcing me to double over in my bed, my mind was executing a flawless corporate assassination. Khloe was my general on the field, feeding me real-time updates as Julian’s reality disintegrated.
