Escaping Ten Years of Lies

I stood before my closet, staring at the neatly arranged rows of designer handbags. Ninety-nine of them, each worth more than most people's monthly rent. In the dim light of my new apartment, they gleamed like trophies—or tombstones.

My fingers trembled as I reached for the first Hermès Birkin, chocolate brown leather soft as a lover's touch. I remembered the day Dominick gave it to me, his eyes bright with something that wasn't quite pride.

"You handled Davina perfectly," he'd said, watching me trace the stitching with wonder. "She won't be bothering us again."

Davina Burke. The young model with legs that went on forever and a baby growing inside her—Dominick's baby. I'd found her sobbing in a hotel bathroom, mascara streaking down her cheeks as she clutched her still-flat stomach.

"I need fifteen thousand," I'd told her, sliding an envelope across the marble countertop. "For the procedure and your silence."

She'd looked at me with those huge brown eyes. "He said he loved me."

"He says that to all of us," I'd replied, surprised by how steady my voice sounded.

Now, running my fingers over the Birkin's flawless leather, I pulled open my laptop and searched through old emails. There it was—a pattern emerging like poison blooming in spring.

Each handbag corresponded to a woman I'd managed. Each woman had been paid, threatened, or both. Some had needed abortions. Others had needed new identities far from New York.

The Prada came after Elise, the banker who'd threatened to expose Dominick's offshore accounts. The Chanel followed Maria, who'd actually managed to fall in love with him. The Louis Vuitton arrived after twins—yes, twins—decided they wanted more than money.

Ninety-nine handbags. Ninety-nine women. Ninety-nine humiliations I'd endured for a man who'd never even bothered to file our marriage certificate.

---

The knock on my door came at sunset. I knew it was him before I opened it.

"Sloan." Dominick stood in the hallway holding a bouquet of white lilies—my favorites, not gardenias. He'd remembered my allergy, at least. "Please let me in."

I stepped aside wordlessly, watching as he entered my small apartment with the confident stride of someone who owned the building. Perhaps he did.

"Claire trapped me," he said, turning to face me with tears glistening in his eyes. "She got pregnant on purpose. The marriage certificate means nothing."

"Nothing?" My voice sounded distant to my own ears.

"Our bond is stronger than any piece of paper." He reached for my injured hand, the one that still ached when it rained—the one I'd broken protecting him from an angry client. "Look what you sacrificed for me."

I let him hold my hand, feeling nothing but the ghost of pain that had once defined me.

"And the medical bills from your miscarriages?" His voice softened to that persuasive tone I knew too well. "Who paid those? Who held you while you cried?"

When I didn't answer, his expression hardened.

"Who's going to want you now?" he whispered, each word a carefully placed knife. "Ten years gone. No children. A crippled hand."

Something inside me cracked—not broke, but shifted like ice in spring thaw.

---

"Remember this place?" Dominick asked as we were seated at the corner table of Le Bernardin.

I did remember. Ten years ago, he'd knelt before me in this very restaurant, holding a ring that had cost more than my parents' house.

"I proposed right here," he said, ordering the same wine we'd shared that night. "The same vintage."

The waiter poured with practiced grace, and I watched the red liquid swirl in my glass like blood.

"I've been thinking about our arrangement," Dominick continued, reaching into his jacket pocket. "I've drafted something formal."

He slid a document across the white tablecloth. I scanned the pages—a contract outlining my role in his household. Nanny. Assistant. Mistress.

"Claire knows about this," he added casually. "She's accepted the arrangement."

"She knew about me? From the beginning?" My voice barely rose above the restaurant's soft murmur.

"Of course." He smiled, reaching for his wine. "She understands what you mean to me."

I stood slowly, my chair scraping against the floor. Other diners turned to look.

"Ninety-nine handbags," I said, my voice steady despite the rage building in my chest. "Ninety-nine women. And I was the most loyal of them all."

Before he could respond, I picked up my wine glass and poured it over his head. The red liquid cascaded down his shocked face as I walked away, leaving him sputtering among the whispers of Manhattan's elite.

That night, I booked a one-way ticket to Paris.

As the confirmation page loaded on my screen, I realized something that should have terrified me: I had nothing left to lose.