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I gave a sad smile. "Or both."
"Yeah. Or both." There was a pause and I hung up before he said anything else.
* * *
As Brant quietly snored from my bedroom, I logged into the security app for my downtown condo, a three thousand square foot palace I rarely set foot into. Starting the download of the evening's files, I called Don, the P.I. who had trailed the couple all evening.
He answered with a yawn. "I'm downloading the images from my camera now."
"Got anything good?"
"A few you'll like. I'll email them to you within the hour."
"The sooner the better."
I ended the call, tapped on the downloaded video file, and sat down to watch Marcus's failure.
He had tried, that was for sure. Done everything right. Hadn't chased, had let her come to him. Been aloof, yet sexual. Hadn't bragged about the condo but let her ooh and ahh over the place. When she had crawled onto his lap, he had fisted her hair in his hands, ground her hips into him enough to let her feel his arousal and his equipment. They had kissed ... she had been horny ... it had been close.
And then… I saw the moment he lost the war. Her brain and guilt had kicked into action and she had stiffened, then pulled away, moving into a chair. Lots of crying and hugging herself and rocking and all sorts of ohmygodwhathaveIdone drama. Marcus had stood awkwardly, at one point glancing toward a ceiling cam with a grimace. Then he sat next to her, pulled her into his arms and smoothed the top of her hair. He'd let her cry into his chest until she calmed.
Then, damn her to hell, she had stopped crying and started to talk to him about me. Tried to talk him into taking me back, said I was so nice and missed him and blah-blah-blah. I closed the video before my guilt took over.
Ugh. Why couldn't Molly have been a normal twenty-one-year-old drunk girl who succumbed to the sexy doctor with the big cock and fancy condo? She was dating a yard boy for heaven's sake, one who was flighty and irresponsible and MIA half the time. This should have been easy; I should have won.
Good thing I didn't need her mistake. I only needed the illusion of one.
I restarted the footage and watched again, taking screenshots of the moments that mattered. Then, I reviewed the still shots, confidence growing with each isolated image. Yes. I had enough. And that was without even seeing Don's images.
I sent an email to my graphic designer and attached the images. Don's email popped up and I forwarded that also. The designer would know what to do, which ones to pick, and by the time Brant and I returned from Hawaii, everything would be ready for execution. I closed my laptop and waddled to the bathroom where I unwrapped my feet and rinsed off the moisture treatment.
Soon, everything would be fixed. Soon, Lee would be fully mine.
* * *
The weapon of my plan — a newspaper proof — was beautiful. I scrolled down the long image, checking the title, date, and the side copy that framed either side of our deceit. It was all legitimate and accurate. Should she feel the need to check on the publication, she'd find what I've placed in easy reach.
The beauty of the proof was in the center of the page, the main event. The headline was in giant letters across the top:
AREA SURGEON'S WIFE FILES FOR DIVORCE AMID CHEATING SCANDAL
Then, the photos. Crisp black and whites, one a respectable newspaper wouldn't print, but in this deception, spoke louder than any words ever could:
Molly and Marcus. At the Ginger. His hand on her leg, his mouth to her ear, a smile I'd seen her use with Lee screaming from the page, her features easily recognizable.
Molly and Marcus. In his car, her mouth on his, the press of her hand silhouetted in the window.
Molly and Marcus. In my living room. On my couch. The zoomed-in photo only showed her bare back, leaning over him, his eyes burning up at her.
Molly and Marcus. My favorite. His hands digging into her back, her mouth at his neck, his head back, eyes closed. The crop made it look like he was inside her, getting the ride of his life.
The copy was short and beneath the photos.
One of the city's most respected cardiologists received divorce papers today in what could be the ending of a five-year union. The good doctor was captured in several incriminating photos with an unidentified young woman. There’s no word on how long their dalliance has been going on. The majority of the photos received were too inappropriate to print. For questions and leads, please email Don Insit at [email protected] or call 415-323-9811.
The page looked stunning, the photos leaping out from the page in a manner that was unavoidable. He would stare. She would stare. He would accuse. She would object or confess. Either way, they would be done. I approved the work, then called Don and verified the plan. He'd print two copies of the full-length newspaper spread. Next week, I'd replace the paper’s cover sheet with this one. I’d leave it on her front step with a nasty note, in a place that Lee would be sure to see it. They could fight over the photos, and I’d reap the rewards of my labor.
The plan was flawless and intelligent. I gave myself an awkward pat on the back and hung up with Don. Then I hurried to the closet and took out my Prada tote. We were wheels up in two hours, but I didn't need to pack much. Our Hawaii closets were full, the bathrooms and kitchens stocked by a staff that was expecting our arrival. I’d need my makeup bag, medications and my laptop, little else. I threw a few paperbacks in my bag, along with a new lingerie set Brant hadn't seen. I texted Jillian to make sure Brant was around and ready, then I headed for the shower.
