Chapter 3 - The Pretender in the MansionAt 7:00 a.m., Charlotte pulled her silver Porsche into the sprawling driveway of the La Jolla mansion she had bought four years ago.
The morning light was pale and grey, washing over the manicured hedges, marble fountains, and stone pillars of the property. Standing near the front entrance, frantically talking on his phone, was her husband, Ryan Ambrose.
Ryan was thirty-four, with slicked-back blonde hair, sharp blue eyes, and the relaxed posture of a man who had never had to work for a paycheck in his entire life. He wore a cashmere sweater and silk trousers, his face flushed with anxiety.
As Charlotte stepped out of her car, Ryan slammed his phone shut and rushed down the marble steps toward her.
"Charlotte! Where the hell have you been all night?!" Ryan demanded, his voice laced with manufactured outrage. "My mother came home at three in the morning in a police cruiser, soaking wet, covered in mud, and completely hysterical! She says you set her up!"
Charlotte walked past him toward the front doors, her heels clicking rhythmically against the stone. "Set her up? I found her SUV parked behind an abandoned warehouse in the Bronx section of San Diego, Ryan. I didn't put a shirtless twenty-five-year-old in the backseat with her."
Ryan caught her arm, his grip tighter than usual. "She was traumatized, Charlotte! She said some street thug tried to rob her and you abandoned her there! Do you have any idea what this is doing to my father? He locked himself in his study and refuses to speak to anyone! He’s talking about calling his lawyers!"
Charlotte stopped, turning slowly to look at her husband. She looked at his face—the handsome, aristocratic features she had once loved—and felt nothing but an profound, empty disgust.
"Hugo isn't calling his lawyers for your mother, Ryan," Charlotte said smoothly. "He’s calling them for himself. He’s filing for divorce."
Ryan froze, his jaw dropping slightly. "Divorce? Over a misunderstanding?!"
"A misunderstanding?" Charlotte laughed softly, pulling her arm out of his grasp. "A $185,000 Vacheron Constantin watch isn't a misunderstanding, Ryan. Neither is $1.8 million withdrawn from the house account in a single afternoon."
Ryan’s eyes flickered with a sudden, sharp flash of panic before he quickly smoothed his expression into one of defensive anger.
"That—that was a business investment!" Ryan stammered, stepping in front of her as she opened the grand double doors of the foyer. "I authorized that withdrawal, Charlotte! I was going to tell you tonight! I’m expanding our family’s portfolio! I secured an exclusive distribution deal for a new luxury label!"
"A luxury label named Vanguard Luxe?" Charlotte asked innocently.
Ryan went rigid. The color drained from his face so fast it looked as if he had been struck by lightning. "How... how do you know that name?"
"I’m a fashion executive, Ryan," Charlotte said, stepping into the high-ceilinged foyer and placing her purse on the mahogany entry table. "I know every boutique, every distributor, and every shell company registered in the state of California. Did you really think you could hide Victoria Sterling’s name on a corporate filing from me?"
Ryan swallowed hard, his throat working frantically as he tried to reassemble his defenses.
"Charlotte... listen to me," Ryan pleaded, his tone instantly shifting from aggressive to manipulative. He took a step toward her, reaching out to take her hands. "Victoria is just a front! It’s a purely financial arrangement! Her family has connections in European manufacturing that we needed! I did it for us! I wanted to surprise you with a brand that could rival the giant Italian fashion houses!"
"By putting her name on the legal title as 100% owner?" Charlotte asked, raising an eyebrow. "By buying her a luxury penthouse in Gaslamp Quarter with my money? By spending three years secretly transferring six million dollars out of my accounts?"
"It’s our money, Charlotte!" Ryan snapped, his composure finally snapping under the pressure. His face contorted into a bitter sneer. "We’re married! Everything you built during these five years was built while you were an Ambrose! My family gave you social standing! My father’s name opened doors for your little dress shops that a girl with your background could never have accessed on her own!"
Charlotte stared at him for three long seconds. Then, she let out a quiet, genuine laugh that echoed off the high marble walls of the foyer.
"Your father’s name?" Charlotte said softly. "Ryan, your father is a retired judge living on a state pension. Your mother’s charity events were funded entirely by my corporate sponsorships. This mansion, the cars you drive, the clothes on your back, the food in the refrigerator—it was all paid for by Charlotte Ruiz."
"You would be nothing in this city without us!" Ryan yelled, his voice echoing up the grand staircase.
"We'll see about that on Saturday night at the gala," Charlotte replied calmly. She turned and began walking up the stairs toward the master suite. "Oh, and Ryan?"
May you like
He glared up at her from the bottom of the stairs, breathing heavily. "What?!"
"Don't sleep in the master bedroom," Charlotte said without looking back. "I had the locks changed while we were talking. Your bags are packed in the garage."
