Chapter 6 - The Mistress’s Reckoning
By two o’clock that afternoon, the detention intake room at the central police precinct was crowded, loud, and smelling faintly of industrial disinfectant and stale coffee.
The heavy glass doors swung open, and Chelsea Monroe marched in, looking flushed, indignant, and wearing the exact same expensive athleisure outfit she had worn while destroying my car the day before. Her designer leather handbag was slung over her shoulder, and she carried a venti iced latte in her hand as if she were walking into a yoga studio rather than a police precinct.
“Excuse me!” Chelsea announced loudly to the front desk sergeant, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder. “I’m looking for Jason Sullivan. I’m his executive assistant, and I need to know why his phone has been turned off all morning. We have an acquisition meeting—!”
“Miss Monroe?”
Chelsea turned around, blinking in surprise as Detective Jessica Guzman stepped out from the hallway, flanked by two uniformed officers.
“Yes? I’m in a rush,” Chelsea snapped, crossing her arms and sipping her latte. “If this is about some parking ticket or minor noise complaint—which is ridiculous—I demand to speak to corporate counsel. Jason is the CEO of NexusSphere, and he will have your badges by the end of the—"
“Miss Monroe, you have the right to remain silent,” Detective Guzman interrupted smoothly, stepping into her personal space and snapping a pair of steel handcuffs around her wrists before she even had time to process the movement.
Her iced latte slipped from her fingers, shattering against the linoleum floor, dark brown liquid splashing across her pristine white sneakers.
“What the hell are you doing?!” Chelsea shrieked, thrashing backward as the officers secured her arms. “Are you out of your mind?! Do you know who I am?! I am an executive at NexusSphere! I’ll sue this entire department!”
“You’re under arrest for felony criminal vandalism, stalking, destruction of private property, and hate-motivated terroristic threats,” Detective Guzman recited calmly, reading her Miranda rights off a laminated card.
Before Chelsea could scream another protest, the door to the holding corridor opened, and Jason was led out in an orange jumpsuit, his hands cuffed to a waist chain, his eyes hollow and red-rimmed.
Chelsea stopped struggling instantly. Her jaw dropped.
“Jason?!” she gasped, staring at him in sheer disbelief. “What is happening?! Why are you in a jumpsuit?!”
Jason looked up, his face twisting into a mask of pure, unadulterated hatred. All the fake affection, all the corporate flirting, all the shared secrets evaporated in a single second under the weight of ruin.
“You!” Jason screamed, lunging forward before the officers yanked him back. “You crazy, psychotic bitch! You had to go vandalize her car! You had to go spray paint and carve up her vehicle like a lunatic!”
“Me?!” Chelsea shrieked, her voice pitching into an ear-piercing octave. “You told me she was a pathetic, trailer-trash nobody holding you back! You told me you wanted a real partner who understood high society! You said she wouldn't do a damn thing about it!”
“I never said to smash a car seat with a tire iron while smiling for the security cameras, you absolute moron!” Jason roared back, straining against his restraints as the officers dragged him toward the holding cells.
“Mr. Sullivan, Miss Monroe, save your couple’s therapy for the courtroom,” Detective Guzman said dryly, motioning for the officers to separate them.
As Chelsea was pushed past me toward the holding bench—her designer clothes rumpled, her hair falling out of its blowout, and tears of pure rage streaming down her face—she caught sight of me standing quietly by the corner of the intake desk.
She stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes narrowing into venomous slits.
“You,” Chelsea hissed, spitting the word out like poison. “You set us up. You planned this.”
I stepped forward, my seven-month pregnancy bump prominent beneath my cream blazer, my gaze steady and unyielding.
“I didn't have to set you up, Chelsea,” I said softly, my voice carrying over the noisy precinct. “You provided all the evidence yourself. High-definition video, signed confessions on your phone, and a complete lack of impulse control. Talent like that doesn't need any help from me.”
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She lunged forward, but the officers yanked her back instantly, shoving her onto the wooden bench.
As she sat there sobbing in humiliation, I turned away, walked out of the precinct doors, and breathed in the fresh afternoon air for the first time in three years.
