Chapter 3
I stood at the window of my newly rented pied-à-terre, gazing down at the Chelsea gallery entrance. The space was sparse—just a bed, desk, and the surveillance equipment I'd had installed that morning. Perfect for my needs.
Eleanor had been efficient. After our early meeting, she'd not only drafted preliminary divorce papers but connected me with a discreet security firm that specialized in legal surveillance. By noon, I had the keys to this strategic outpost directly above the gallery where Ryan's career-defining exhibition would soon take place.
"The cameras are motion-activated and will upload footage directly to secure cloud storage," the technician explained as he finished the installation. "You'll receive notifications on your phone whenever movement is detected."
I nodded, handing him an envelope of cash. "And this setup is completely legal?"
"Yes, Ms. Sterling. You're monitoring public spaces and areas you've legally rented. Nothing inside private property without consent."
Once alone, I methodically arranged my command center. Laptop connected to the surveillance feed. Phone charged. A small notebook where I'd begun documenting every expense I'd covered for Ryan over the years—a staggering sum that would soon become relevant.
My phone buzzed with the first alert. On screen, I watched Ryan enter the gallery below, gesturing animatedly to Arthur Albright, the gallery owner. Even without audio, I could read Ryan's characteristic swagger—the performance of the confident artist that had once charmed me.
I zoomed in on his face, searching for any sign of concern about my unexpected departure from our loft that morning. There was none. Just the same self-assured smile he'd worn throughout our marriage.
My hand drifted to my abdomen. "He doesn't deserve to know about you," I whispered.
The next day, I executed the second phase of my plan. With a cup of tea beside me, I logged into my banking portal and located the automatic payment for Ryan's studio rent—$4,800 monthly for the SoHo space where he'd betrayed me with Isabella.
I clicked "cancel recurring payment" and felt a surprising lightness as I confirmed the action. For years, I'd carried his financial burdens without complaint, believing I was supporting his artistic journey. Now I saw it for what it was—enabling his parasitic lifestyle.
Next, I composed an email to his landlord from my private account:
*Mr. Goldstein,*
*I'm writing to inform you that the automatic payments for Studio 503 at 142 Prince Street have been discontinued as of today. The tenant, Ryan Mitchell, will be responsible for all future payments directly.*
*Additionally, I believe there may be some irregularities with past deposits. You might want to review your records.*
*Regards,*
*Victoria Sterling*
I scheduled the email to send the day after Ryan's exhibition—timing was everything.
Later that afternoon, my surveillance alert pinged. Isabella was entering the gallery, portfolio in hand. According to the exhibition schedule I'd obtained from Arthur's assistant, she was there for a final casting session—selecting which of her portraits would feature in Ryan's show.
I grabbed my coat and a pair of oversized sunglasses. Time for a closer look.
Twenty minutes later, I pushed open the gallery door, my appearance transformed. With my hair pulled back severely, minimal makeup, and glasses, I barely resembled the polished CEO Ryan's art world associates would recognize.
"Hello," I said to the receptionist, affecting a slight European accent. "I'm Margot Klein, scouting for the Bergmann Gallery in Berlin. I heard there's a casting session today?"
She smiled. "Yes, for the Mitchell exhibition. Let me check if Mr. Albright can accommodate you."
Moments later, I was being ushered into the main gallery space where Ryan, Isabella, and Arthur were surrounded by canvases—all featuring Isabella in various poses.
"Ms. Klein, welcome," Arthur said, extending his hand. "Always pleased to connect with European galleries."
Ryan barely glanced at me, too engrossed in positioning Isabella's nude portrait prominently.
I activated the voice recorder on my phone as I approached Isabella, who was draped in an expensive-looking cashmere wrap I recognized—I'd paid for it last Christmas.
"Your work is stunning," I said to her. "You must be in high demand as a model."
She preened, tossing her dark hair. "Ryan appreciates true beauty. He's quite generous with his muses."
"Oh?" I encouraged.
"The Cartier bracelet was just last week," she said, extending her wrist to display a diamond-encrusted piece I'd never seen. "And we're going to Paris after the exhibition. First class, of course."
I smiled, recording every word as she detailed the lavish lifestyle my money had provided for my husband's mistress.
Ryan approached, finally noticing me. For a heart-stopping moment, I thought he might recognize me despite the disguise.
"Interested in my work?" he asked with the practiced charm I once found irresistible.
"Very," I replied softly. "I find it... revealing."
As I left the gallery, recorder safely tucked away, I felt the first genuine smile cross my face since discovering his betrayal. The evidence was mounting, and Ryan remained oblivious to the storm gathering around him.
The chess pieces were in position. Now I just needed to wait for the perfect moment to say "checkmate."
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