Chapter 8
A week had passed. A week of silence. Cleveland hadn't come home. He hadn't called. He had simply vanished, presumably into Seraphina's ten-million-dollar penthouse.
Hadley stepped out of a black car and into the pulsing heart of SoHo. She wore a deep red trench coat, belted tight, her heels clicking with purpose on the wet pavement. She walked up to the velvet rope of SoHo House, the city's most exclusive members-only club.
The bouncer moved to block her. "Members only tonight, ma'am."
Hadley didn't say a word. She just opened her clutch and pulled out a sleek, black, featureless card. The Jacobson family Centurion. The bouncer's eyes widened. He unclipped the rope immediately.
She swept through the crowded main floor, her eyes scanning the VIP booths. There. In the largest, most prominent booth, Seraphina was holding court, surrounded by a gaggle of aspiring socialites and C-list actresses. A massive, glittering diamond necklace was draped around her neck, a trophy of Cleveland's affection.
Hadley's arrival was a silent bomb. The music seemed to dip, and conversations faltered. The crowd parted for her as she walked toward the booth.
Seraphina saw her. A flicker of panic crossed her face, quickly replaced by a defiant sneer. She stood up, deliberately puffing out her chest to better display the necklace.
"Mrs. Jacobson," Seraphina said, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. "Are you lost?"
Hadley ignored her. She reached across the table and picked up a martini. She swirled the clear liquid, her eyes cold. "That necklace," she said, her voice carrying easily in the sudden lull. "The cut is flawed. It's from his secondary collection. The pieces he gives to his... business associates."
A collective gasp went through the women at the table. Seraphina's face flushed a deep, ugly red.
"At least he's sleeping with me every night," Seraphina hissed, her voice low and vicious. "While you're alone in that big, empty apartment. A useless wife who can't even give him a child."
The words hit their mark. A sharp, familiar pain lanced through Hadley's chest. Her fingers tightened on the stem of the martini glass, her knuckles turning white. But she didn't let it show on her face.
She let her gaze sweep over the other women at the table, her expression a mask of aristocratic disdain. "Before you choose a side," she advised, her tone conversational but laced with venom, "I'd recommend looking into the rumors about his latest acquisition falling through. You might want to make sure his cash flow is as stable as you think it is before you bet your social standing on a temporary distraction."
Rage contorted Seraphina's features. She grabbed a glass of red wine, her arm moving to throw it.
Hadley was faster. She caught Seraphina's wrist, her grip like iron. With her other hand, she calmly upended the martini, drenching Seraphina's face and designer dress in cold gin and vermouth.
Seraphina shrieked, a high, piercing sound.
The club manager rushed over, his face pale with panic.
Hadley released Seraphina's wrist. She reached into her clutch, pulled out a crisp hundred-dollar bill, and tossed it onto the table. "For the dry cleaning," she said, her voice dripping with contempt.
Then she turned and walked out, her back straight, leaving chaos in her wake.
Outside, the cold night air hit her, and she realized she was shaking. Her entire body was trembling with adrenaline. She was done with these petty games. Tomorrow night was the annual Wall Street Charity Gala. A much bigger stage. And she was ready to burn it all down.
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