MARRYING HIM WAS A MISTAKE

Oliver Chen arrived within twenty minutes.

I heard him before I saw him, the elevator chime, footsteps in the hall, a confident knock that said he'd been here before, Many times.

Marcus moved to answer, but I stopped him.

"Let me."

I opened the door.

Oliver Chen was not what I expected at all.

Tall, sharp-featured, expensive suit even at past 10 PM. Mid-thirties, maybe. The kind of man who looked like he belonged in boardrooms and five-star hotels. His eyes glowing with intelligence, calculating, swept over me with the practiced assessment of someone who was used to sizing up adversaries.

"Mrs. Banks." He extended a hand. "Oliver Chen. Though I suspect you are already well aware of who I am."

I didn't take his hand. "You're the one blackmailing my husband."

"I'd prefer 'correcting an injustice.'" He lowered his hand, unfazed. "May I come in?"

"No."

"Sandra!" Marcus called out to me.

"It's fine." Oliver's smile didn't reach his eyes. "We can talk here. Though your neighbors might find the conversation interesting."

I stepped aside.

He walked in like he owned the place, immediately making himself comfortable on Marcus's couch. Marcus hovered near the door, looking like all he wanted at that point was to disappear.

"Drink?" Oliver asked, gesturing to Marcus's bar cart.

"This isn't a social call," I said coldly.

"Isn't it?" He leaned back, studying me. "Your brother and I have been seeing each other for eight months. That makes us practically family."

"You used him."

"I fell in love with him." Oliver's expression didn't change. "Those two things aren't mutually exclusive."

Marcus flinched.

I sat across from Oliver, arms crossed. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why blackmail Jimmy? Why now? Why any of this?"

Oliver was quiet for a moment. Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

"Because your husband is a thief," he said simply. "And because three years ago, he hired my firm to help him commit fraud. I didn't know what I was getting into at first-just another corporate restructuring job. But the deeper I dug, the more I realized what he'd done."

"He stole something that wasn't his," Oliver said with a stern look. "Morrison Properties wasn't just a business. It was your father's legacy. Your identity. Your future. And Jimmy took it, piece by piece, until there was nothing left of Sandra Morrison except a signature on a marriage certificate."

The words hit like acid.

"So what? You decided to be my avenging angel?"

"I decided to give you a choice." Oliver pulled out his phone and tapped the screen. "Six months ago, I sent Jimmy my first demand. Return everything to you, or I release the evidence. He refused. Said you'd never believe me. Said you were too far gone."

"Clearly he was wrong."

"Was he?" Oliver's eyes locked on mine. "You've known something was wrong for a year, Sandra. The affair rumors. The late nights. The way he looks through you like you're furniture. But you didn't do anything. You just kept pretending."

"I didn't have proof."

"You didn't want proof," he interrupted. "Because proof meant admitting you'd made a mistake. And women like you smart, accomplished, proud, would rather disappear than admit they were wrong."

I wanted to slap him.

Instead, I said, "What do you want?"

"Nothing from you." Oliver stood, straightening his jacket. "The demands are for Jimmy. He has seventy-two hours to transfer Banks Enterprises back to you. All of it. If he doesn't, I go to the SEC, the FBI, and every major news outlet in the country with everything I have."

"And if he doesn't?"

"Then the evidence disappears. He gets to walk away with his reputation intact. And you get back what was always yours."

It sounded too easy. Too clean.

"Why would he agree to that?" I asked. "He'd lose everything."

"Not everything. He'd keep his freedom." Oliver moved toward the door. "Prison is a powerful motivator."

"And what about Marcus?" The question came out sharper than I intended. "Where does he fit in your grand plan?"

Oliver stopped, hand on the doorknob. For the first time, something genuine flickered in his expression.

"Marcus was never part of the plan," he said quietly. "He was... unexpected."

"Convenient, you mean."

"No." Oliver turned to face me. "Inconvenient. Complicated. Real." He glanced at my brother, who still hadn't moved from his spot by the wall. "I didn't expect to care about him. But I do."

"That's supposed to make this better?"

"It's supposed to explain why I'm telling you the truth now instead of letting you figure it out on your own." Oliver opened the door. "I could've stayed anonymous. Could've watched this play out from a distance. But Marcus asked me to meet you, so here I am."

"How noble."

"I'm not noble, Mrs. Banks. I'm pragmatic." He stepped into the hallway. "Your husband has seventy-two hours. After that, the choice is out of my hands."

The door closed behind him.

Marcus and I stood in silence for a long moment.

"Say something," he finally whispered.

"What do you want me to say?" I whispered back sinking into the couch. "That it's okay? That I understand? And why are we even whispering"

He smiled a little and the tension for a moment eased up.

"I didn't know" he said.

"You should have asked." I looked up at him. "Eight months, Marcus. Eight months, and you never thought to mention you were dating someone who worked for Jimmy?"

"He told me he was a consultant. That's all." Marcus sat beside me, head in his hands. "I didn't know about the blackmail until tonight. I swear."

"But you knew something was wrong."

He didn't answer. He didn't need to.

"The DUI," I said slowly. "When the press caught you with Oliver. That wasn't an accident, was it?"

"I don't know." Marcus's voice cracked. "Maybe. Oliver says it wasn't, but..."

"But you don't trust him anymore."

"I don't know what I trust." He looked at me, eyes red.

"Do you believe him? About Jimmy?"

I thought about the flash drive. The emails. The offshore accounts. Years of evidence, all pointing to the same conclusion.

"Yeah," I said quietly. "I do."

"So what are you going to do?"

Good question.

I could confront Jimmy. Demand the truth. Give him a chance to explain.

Or I could stay silent. Let Oliver's deadline pass. Watch my husband's empire crumble.

Or...

"I'm going to have a talk with Isabelle Laurent," I said.

Marcus blinked. "The fixer?"

"She knows everything. Where the bodies are buried. How deep the fraud goes." I stood, grabbing my purse. "If I'm going to make a decision about my marriage, I need all the information."

"How are you going to find her?"

I pulled out my phone and opened the photos Oliver had compiled. Found one with a clear shot of Isabelle outside a building.

Mercier Consulting. Fifth Avenue.

"I'll start there."

James was still waiting in the car when I emerged from Marcus's building. If he was surprised by the late hour, he didn't show it.

"Home, Mrs. Banks?"

"Yes." I slid into the backseat. "But I'll need you to drive me somewhere tomorrow morning. Early. Before Jimmy wakes up. That's if he's homes." I chuckled beneath my breath.

"Where?"

"Mercier Consulting. Fifth Avenue."

James's eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. "May I ask why?"

I didn't flinch, didn't say a word, just fixed my gaze on him and he got the memo.

He nodded slowly. "What time?"

"Seven AM. And James?" I leaned forward. "This stays between us."

"Always, ma'am."

I got home just after midnight.

The house was dark except for a light in Jimmy's study. Through the window, I could see his silhouette hunched over his desk, phone pressed to his ear.

I stood in the driveway and watched him.

From here, he looked like the man I'd married. Focused, Driven, Beautiful in the way complex equations are beautiful.

But up close, I knew what I'd find. Cold eyes, Lies. A stranger wearing my husband's face.

I didn't go inside.

Instead, I got back in the car and told James to drive.

"Where to?"

"I don't care. Just...anywhere but here."

We drove for an hour. Past the suburbs. Past the city limits. Until the roads were empty and the trailings of street lights looked unending.

James finally pulled over at a rest stop.

"Mrs. Banks," he said gently. "You should rest."

"I can't." My voice sounded hollow. "If I stop moving, I'll fall apart."

"Then fall apart." He turned in his seat. "You've been holding yourself together for months. Maybe it's time to let go."

"I don't know how."

"Start small." He handed me a bottle of water from the console. "Drink this. Let yourself feel something other than fear."

I took the water but didn't drink it.

"How did you know?" I asked. "That I was afraid?"

"Because I've been your chauffeur for five years, ma'am. And I've watched you disappear." His expression was kind. Sad.

"The woman who got in my car today isn't the woman who hired me. That Sandra Morrison would've burned the world down before she let someone steal from her. This Sandra Banks..." He trailed off.

"This Sandra is weak."

"No." James shook his head. "This Sandra is tired. There's a difference."

I finally drank the water. It was cold, Real.

"What if I can't get her back?" I whispered. "What if I've been gone too long?"

"Then you start over." James turned back to the wheel. "You're still breathing, Mrs. Banks. That means you still have a choice."

We got back to the house at 2 AM. Jimmy's study light was off now. The whole house was dark.

I went inside quietly, past the master bedroom where Jimmy was presumably sleeping, and into the guest room that had become my sanctuary.

I didn't turn on the lights. Just lay on the bed, still in my clothes, staring at the ceiling.

My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

You have 71 hours.

Oliver. Reminding me the clock was ticking.

Another text, this one from Dr. Vivian Chen.

Did you open the drive? Now you understand.

I typed back: Why did you really help me?

Her response came immediately.

Because no one helped me when I needed it. And because I'm tired of watching powerful men destroy good women.

I set the phone down and closed my eyes.

Seventy-one hours.

Three days to decide whether to save my marriage or destroy it.

Three days to figure out who I wanted to be when this was over.

Sandra Morrison. Sandra Banks.

Or someone entirely new.

I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I knew, light was streaming through the windows and my phone was ringing.

6:47 AM. James.

"I'm downstairs, Mrs. Banks. Whenever you're ready."

I sat up, disoriented. Then I remembered.

Mercier Consulting. Isabelle Laurent.

I splashed water on my face, changed into fresh clothes, and went downstairs.

Jimmy was in the kitchen, already dressed for work, coffee in hand.

He looked up when I entered. "You're up early."

"Couldn't sleep."

"Join the club." He set down his mug. "I have a meeting at eight. Probably won't be home until late."

"Of course."

He studied me for a moment. "Are you okay?"

The question was perfunctory of course. He didn't really want to know.

"Fine," I said. "Just tired."

"You should rest. You look..." He gestured vaguely at my face. "Drained."

"Thanks."

He grabbed his briefcase and headed for the door. Then stopped.

"Sandra?"

I turned.

"I know things have been difficult between us," he said carefully. "But we'll get through this. We always do."

The lie was so smooth I almost believed it.

"Sure," I said. "We always do."

He left.

I waited until I heard his car pull away. Then I grabbed my purse and went out to where James was waiting.

"Mercier Consulting," I said, sliding into the backseat.

"Yes, ma'am."

We drove in silence. I watched the city wake up around us, joggers, dog walkers, delivery trucks. Normal people living normal lives, with a touch of luxury. That morning, I wondered if all the very wealthy people really lived happily. If all was just a farcade and a cover up but then again I remembered my parents, they were the second richest elites in the states and they had a bond I have never seen anywhere else.

What did that feel like?

Mercier Consulting was housed in a sleek glass building on Fifth Avenue. All chrome and marble and intimidating modernity.

I walked in like I belonged there.

The receptionist looked up. "Good day ma'am, Can I help you?"

"I'm here to see Isabelle Laurent."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No. But she'll want to see me." I met her eyes. "Tell her Sandra Banks is here."

The receptionist's professional smile faltered. "One moment."

She picked up the phone, whispered something, listened.

"Ms. Laurent will be right down."

I sat in the lobby and waited.

Five minutes later, the elevator opened.

Isabelle Laurent stepped out.

She was more beautiful in person. Blonde hair falling perfectly with a curl that seemed animated, glittering from the sunrays, obviously over gelled I thought with a smirk. Perfectly tailored suit. She was the kind of woman who looked effortlessly powerful.

Her eyes found mine, and something flickered in them. Surprise. Maybe respect.

"Mrs. Banks," she said, crossing the lobby. "This is unexpected."

"I'm not here for pleasantries."

"I gathered." She gestured to the elevator. "My office?"

I stood. "Lead the way."