CHAPTER 3 — THE MISTRESS MOVES IN
CHAPTER 3 — THE MISTRESS MOVES IN
Brenda moved into my house at 8:14 the next morning.
Not because Andrew had invited her.
Because she believed she had already won.
The first photograph reached me less than an hour later.
Brenda standing beneath the chandelier in the entrance hall.
My entrance hall.
She was wearing a cream silk dress, holding a glass of champagne, and smiling at the camera as if the mansion had been waiting for her.
The caption underneath the photograph was simple.
Finally home.
I stared at it for several seconds.
Then I laughed.
Thomas looked up from his tablet.
“Something funny?”
I turned the screen toward him.
He studied the photograph.
“She's moved in.”
“Yes.”
“Should I have security remove her?”
I shook my head.
“No.”
Thomas raised an eyebrow.
“Why not?”
“Let her unpack.”
Brenda had always dreamed of that house.
I knew that because she had spent months pretending she didn't.
Whenever she visited, she would wander through the rooms slowly.
She would touch the crystal glasses.
Admire the staircase.
Ask Margaret where she had purchased the curtains.
Once, she had stood outside my bedroom and said casually:
“Some women are simply born for beautiful homes.”
I had understood the message.
She hadn't.
She had been waiting.
Waiting for Andrew to choose her.
Waiting for me to disappear.
Waiting for the house to become hers.
Now she believed the waiting was over.
She had no idea that the mansion didn't belong to Andrew.
It belonged to the Escalante family trust.
And I was the sole controlling beneficiary.
At 9:02, my phone rang.
It was Andrew.
I let it ring.
Again.
Again.
Then a message appeared.
Brenda is moving her things in.
I stared at the message.
A second one arrived.
You need to come back.
Then:
This has gone too far.
I smiled.
I typed:
Enjoy the house.
Three dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
Finally:
What does that mean?
I didn't answer.
At the mansion, Brenda was having the time of her life.
She had brought twelve suitcases.
Two makeup cases.
Four garment bags.
A dozen pairs of shoes.
She had even brought framed photographs of herself and Andrew.
She placed them on the mantelpiece.
The servants watched silently.
One of them finally asked:
“Mrs. Whitmore, where would you like these?”
Brenda smiled.
“Mrs. Whitmore?”
The servant hesitated.
“I apologize.”
Brenda looked around.
“You may call me Brenda.”
The servant nodded.
“Of course.”
Brenda pointed toward the master suite.
“Take everything upstairs.”
The servant froze.
“The master suite?”
“Yes.”
“That room is—”
“I know where it is.”
Brenda smiled.
“It's mine now.”
The servant looked toward Andrew.
Andrew stood in the hallway.
He said nothing.
Brenda took his silence as approval.
She walked upstairs.
The master bedroom looked exactly as I had left it.
My books remained on the nightstand.
My perfume sat beside the mirror.
My photograph with my father stood beside the lamp.
Brenda picked up the photograph.
She studied it.
Then dropped it into the trash.
“Too sentimental.”
She opened my wardrobe.
Most of my clothes were still there.
She laughed.
“These are awful.”
Then she called a stylist.
“Everything goes.”
Within an hour, strangers were carrying my belongings out of the bedroom.
Andrew watched from the doorway.
“You sure this is a good idea?”
Brenda turned.
“Why wouldn't it be?”
“She could come back.”
Brenda smiled.
“She won't.”
“How do you know?”
“Because women like Mariana don't know how to fight.”
Andrew looked uncomfortable.
“She knows more than you think.”
Brenda walked toward him.
“Andrew.”
“What?”
“You hit her.”
He looked away.
“You humiliated her.”
He said nothing.
“You told her to crawl.”
Still nothing.
“She left.”
Brenda wrapped her arms around his neck.
“Which means she lost.”
Andrew didn't answer.
Brenda kissed him.
“We won.”
They celebrated that night.
Champagne.
Music.
Expensive food.
Guests who had once smiled at me now gathered around Brenda.
Margaret arrived wearing a black dress.
She kissed Brenda on both cheeks.
“You finally belong here.”
Brenda smiled.
“I know.”
Margaret looked around.
“Where is Mariana's luggage?”
“Gone.”
“Good.”
Margaret lifted her glass.
“To new beginnings.”
Everyone drank.
Except Andrew.
He stared at his phone.
His banking application remained locked.
His business accounts were restricted.
His corporate access was suspended.
His attorney had stopped promising solutions.
But Brenda kept smiling.
“Don't worry,” she whispered.
“She can't keep this up.”
Andrew looked at her.
“You're sure?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Because she's emotional.”
Brenda's smile sharpened.
“Women always make mistakes when they're hurt.”
At the Escalante headquarters, I watched the security feed.
Brenda's little celebration played across the screen.
I watched her raise the champagne glass.
I watched Margaret toast.
I watched Andrew sit silently.
Then I noticed something.
Victor Crane was there.
I leaned forward.
“Pause.”
The video stopped.
Thomas zoomed in.
Victor stood near the fireplace.
I stared at him.
“He wasn't invited.”
“No.”
“Then why is he there?”
Thomas checked the guest records.
“He arrived twenty-three minutes before Margaret.”
“Interesting.”
Victor looked directly toward one of the security cameras.
Then smiled.
I felt a chill.
“He knows we're watching.”
Thomas nodded.
“Probably.”
“Then let's give him something to watch.”
I made one call.
“Release the first notice.”
Thomas looked at me.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“Understood.”
At 10:03 that night, the mansion's electricity went out.
Brenda screamed.
“What happened?”
The servants rushed toward the hallway.
Andrew grabbed his phone.
“No signal.”
Margaret looked terrified.
“What's happening?”
Then every light came back on.
The television screens throughout the mansion turned on simultaneously.
A single document appeared.
PROPERTY OWNERSHIP NOTICE
Brenda stared.
“What is that?”
Andrew walked closer.
His face went pale.
The document showed the property owner.
Not Andrew.
Not Margaret.
Not Brenda.
Escalante Legacy Trust.
Below it was a second name.
Mariana Escalante — Controlling Beneficiary.
Brenda stared.
“No.”
Andrew whispered:
“She's doing this.”
A voice came through the speakers.
Mine.
“Good evening.”
Everyone froze.
Brenda stepped backward.
“How did she—”
My voice continued.
“I understand that someone has recently moved into my bedroom.”
Brenda's face turned red.
“Turn it off!”
The servants didn't move.
“Turn it off!”
Nothing happened.
My recording continued.
“I also understand that several of my belongings have been removed.”
Brenda looked at Andrew.
“Make her stop.”
Andrew stared at the screen.
He couldn't.
Then I said:
“Don't worry.”
“You may stay.”
Brenda's eyes narrowed.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“You may stay in the house.”
Margaret looked confused.
Andrew looked suspicious.
Brenda slowly smiled.
I continued.
“For now.”
The screen changed.
A document appeared.
TEMPORARY RESIDENCY AGREEMENT
Brenda read it.
Her smile disappeared.
The agreement stated that she was permitted to occupy the mansion temporarily, but any personal property she brought into the house would be subject to inventory.
Any damage would be billed to her.
Any unauthorized transfer of assets would trigger immediate legal action.
And the final clause made her blood run cold.
No person occupying the property may represent themselves as the legal owner or beneficiary of the estate.
Brenda looked at Andrew.
“I don't understand.”
My voice answered.
“You don't have to.”
The screens went black.
Brenda screamed.
“This is insane!”
Margaret turned toward Andrew.
“Fix this.”
“I can't.”
“What do you mean you can't?”
“I don't control the company.”
Margaret stared at him.
“Then who does?”
Andrew said nothing.
Brenda stepped toward him.
“Who?”
He finally whispered:
“Mariana.”
Brenda's face changed.
For the first time, she understood.
The woman she had replaced had never been powerless.
She had simply been patient.
At midnight, another message arrived on my phone.
This time, it was from an unknown number.
You shouldn't have activated the trust.
I stared at the screen.
Then another message.
You don't understand what it protects.
I typed:
Who is this?
The reply came immediately.
Someone who knew your mother.
My heartbeat quickened.
I looked at the sealed letter from my mother sitting on my desk.
Then another message arrived.
If you want the truth about your father, come alone.
A location followed.
An abandoned church on the eastern edge of the city.
Tomorrow.
Midnight.
I stared at it.
Thomas entered.
“What happened?”
I handed him the phone.
He read the messages.
His expression changed.
“You're not going.”
“I am.”
“No.”
“Thomas—”
“This is exactly what your mother warned you about.”
I froze.
“You read the letter?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know?”
He looked at me.
“Because I know who sent it.”
My heart pounded.
“Who?”
Thomas hesitated.
Then whispered:
“Victor Crane.”
Across town, Brenda stood in my bedroom.
She had changed into silk pajamas.
She looked at herself in the mirror.
The room was beautiful.
The bed was enormous.
The jewelry cabinet was filled with things she had once dreamed of touching.
She smiled.
Then she opened the closet.
My clothes were gone.
But one thing remained.
A single brown leather purse.
The same purse I had carried out of the mansion.
Brenda frowned.
She picked it up.
Then noticed something hidden inside the lining.
A small envelope.
She opened it.
There was one photograph.
Brenda's smile disappeared.
It showed her meeting Victor Crane.
Three years earlier.
Before she had ever met Andrew.
Before anyone knew her name.
On the back of the photograph were six handwritten words:
You still owe us for what you did.
Brenda dropped it.
Her hands began shaking.
She looked toward the bedroom door.
Someone was standing there.
Andrew.
“What did you find?”
Brenda quickly picked up the photograph.
“Nothing.”
Andrew stared at her.
“Give it to me.”
“No.”
“Brenda.”
She stepped backward.
“You don't understand.”
“What don't I understand?”
She looked at him.
“I wasn't supposed to marry you.”
Andrew froze.
“What?”
Brenda's eyes filled with tears.
“You were supposed to be a temporary step.”
“Toward what?”
She couldn't answer.
“Brenda.”
She finally whispered:
“Toward Mariana.”
Andrew stared at her.
“What the hell does that mean?”
Before she could answer, every light in the bedroom went out.
A phone rang somewhere downstairs.
Then another.
Then another.
Andrew's phone vibrated.
A message appeared.
Your wife has begun the second phase.
Andrew looked at Brenda.
“What second phase?”
Brenda whispered:
“I don't know.”
Then a final message appeared on his screen.
Tomorrow, you will learn who really owns your life.
Andrew looked toward the dark window.
For the first time, he understood something terrifying.
Mariana wasn't trying to get her husband back.
She wasn't even trying to destroy him.
She was dismantling the world around him piece by piece.
And Brenda had just discovered that she had never been the woman who replaced Mariana.
She had been a pawn placed inside the marriage for a reason.
A reason that had nothing to do with love.
And everything to do with a secret that had been buried for years.
Outside, thunder rolled across the city.
Inside the mansion, nobody slept.
And somewhere far away, Mariana sat alone beneath the lights of the Escalante Tower, reading the last page of her mother's letter.
There were only three words on it.
Trust no one.
I turned the page over.
There was nothing else.
Then I noticed something.
A faint mark beneath the paper.
An indentation.
I held it beneath the desk lamp.
Letters slowly appeared.
A hidden message.
YOUR FATHER IS NOT ALEJANDRO.
My breath stopped.
May you like
And suddenly, the question wasn't whether I could destroy Andrew.
It was whether I was ready to discover who had really created me.
