Chapter 4

Charlotte's POV:

The elevator was packed. Qiana and I were hemmed in by a crowd — a crowd that sneered at me and fawned over her.

She stood there with her brow furrowed, eyes rimmed red, drawing in sharp little breaths like she was barely holding it together.

"Charlotte, I know you care about Mason, but you can't just take it out on me."

"Besides, we're at work. This isn't the place for jealousy."

Jealousy.

As Mason's wife, I was supposed to be jealous of his sister-in-law?

The very idea was laughable.

But the people around us believed it.

When Mason and I got married, the gap between our families made us keep it quiet. Almost no one at the company knew. Most people had their own theory — that I'd slept my way up, latched onto some executive and rode it to a cushy position.

Mason never corrected them. And I, fool that I was, actually thought he was being smart, keeping his work life and personal life separate.

Then Qiana showed up. That's when I understood: he just didn't care.

I was already walking out the door. Why was I still protecting his image?

I opened my mouth — but Qiana got there first.

"Mason..." Her voice was soft, her eyes still glistening. The hurt in it was perfectly calibrated. "Can you check on Charlotte, make sure she's not hurt? I'll have a colleague take me to the hospital."

"I'll take you."

Mason crossed the lobby in long strides. His shoulder caught mine — hard.

I wasn't ready for it. The impact sent me stumbling backward, nearly tangling my feet in the potted plant behind me. I must have looked ridiculous.

He didn't even glance at me. He scooped Qiana into his arms and turned away.

"Charlotte, I never knew you were capable of this."

"Since you're responsible for Qiana's injury, you can handle choosing the gift for Mr. Windsor yourself."

"Fail, and you're out."

My stomach dropped.

In his eyes, I was a nobody — some obscure painter. There was no way I could know Robert's tastes. He was certain I'd crash and burn. And in doing so, he'd make Qiana look good and push me out in one clean move.

Even if I'd quit on my own, it would just read as me saving face at the last second.

For Qiana, he truly would not spare me a single thought.

I looked up. He was already walking away, and Qiana — her arms looped around his neck — turned back just long enough to shoot me a slow, triumphant smile.

Pathetic.

I felt nothing but boredom. Two women fighting over one man — what was there to watch? If he actually cared about either of us, he never would have let it get to this point. Whatever he felt for Qiana was just restless wanting, nothing more.

I didn't bother defending myself. Standing there, I realized the only person at the Scott Group I'd ever genuinely valued was Mason's brother, Owen.

But Owen was gone. Lost at sea in that plane crash.

For him, then. One last effort — for him.

I got to work.

I combed through everything publicly available on Robert Windsor, CEO of the Windsor Group, reading it over and over. The picture that emerged was clear: this man did not let people in easily.

Born into old money. Jaw-droppingly handsome, with sharp, heavy-lidded eyes that held the quiet authority of someone who had never once questioned his place in the world. But looks and pedigree were almost beside the point — his mind was the real weapon. Under his leadership, the Windsor Group had expanded its reach across industries. He spoke eight languages fluently.

The man was, by every measure, extraordinary.

And I was supposed to find a gift that would actually mean something to him?

Good luck.

I scrolled through the search results and paused. There it was — a news item from last month. Robert had attended an art exhibition.

Maybe I could paint something for him. It might not dazzle him, but it wouldn't collect dust in a corner either.

I hadn't even picked up a brush yet when Mason's message came through.

[Qiana sprained her ankle. I'm staying to take care of her for a few days. Don't wait up.]

'How thoughtful of him,' I thought, 'to remember I exist while he's tending to the woman he loves. I'm truly honored.'

The sarcasm was still turning over in my mind when a second notification appeared. Qiana.

It was a photo. Mason perched on the edge of her bed, peeling an apple, his expression soft in a way I had never once seen directed at me.

She'd added a caption.

[You trained him well. Too bad you don't get to enjoy it — I do now.]

Trained him.

As if I'd had anything to do with it. He chose to be that way for her.

I almost smiled. Then I put my phone down and started painting.

With them gone, I had the space to breathe. The hours I wasn't painting, I spent going through the apartment — folding, packing, calling a moving company. Methodical. Quiet.

Everything was loaded except the last box when Mason's car pulled into the driveway.

My heart seized. If he noticed what I'd been doing, there would be a scene.

He didn't look twice. Phone already to his ear, he walked straight past me toward the front door.

"I just came to grab a few things. Keep the water and fruit close. Don't move around too much."

"If you need anything, ask the housekeeper. I'll be back soon."

That voice. Gentle. Patient. Careful in all the ways it had never been with me.

The panic in my chest curdled into something closer to mockery — of myself, mostly.

He was completely consumed by someone else. Of course he wouldn't notice the closet stripped bare. Of course he wouldn't wonder what I was doing.

I signed the movers' paperwork and watched the truck roll down the street until it disappeared around the corner.

'The bags are gone. How much longer until I am too?'

Three years together. Six months married. And it had come to this.

I don't know how long I stood in the cold before I heard Mason behind me.

"What are you doing out here? I'm busy. I don't have time for this." A pause, then: "And don't even think about getting yourself sick just to get my attention. That kind of manipulation only makes me think less of you."

Whatever I'd been feeling dissolved instantly.

I turned around, smiling. "Don't worry. I'm perfectly fine. I won't be any trouble."

I glanced at the suitcase in his hand, and my smile deepened. "Take good care of Qiana. She's on her own now — she's going to need you for a long time."

His expression went cold.

"Drop the passive-aggressive act. Taking care of her is what I should be doing. I said from the beginning — I will never abandon her. Not ever."

He held out a card. "Here. Buy yourself whatever you want."

I'll give him this — he was never stingy with money. But a wife who gets an allowance and nothing else isn't really a wife. She's less than a mistress.

I took the card anyway. Smiled. Watched him go.

Then I pulled out my phone and donated every cent to charity.

He wasn't much. The money, at least, could do some good.

That settled, I framed the painting myself and dialed the number for Robert's assistant, Damon Gray.

"Hi, this is Charlotte York from the Scott Group. We have a gift we'd like to deliver to Mr. Windsor. When would be a good time?"

"One moment."

A few seconds of silence.

"Ms. York, Mr. Windsor is very busy. He's not available to meet with you at this time."

I paused.

The two companies were in the middle of negotiating a deal. This wasn't how that was supposed to sound.

No meeting. No mention of the gift. Nothing.

The so-called partnership was probably just wishful thinking on the Scott Group's side.

No wonder Qiana had been so eager to hand this off to me. She wanted someone to take the fall.

Mason had been thinking the same thing.

The last of whatever warmth I had left went cold — but I refused to give them the satisfaction of watching me fail.