The rain was relentless the day Bradley Astor’s new love knelt at the gates of my mansion, a picture of delicate sorrow. "Mrs. Astor, I swear, there's nothing between Bradley and me. You have to believe us." And my husband, Bradley, stood just inside the floor-to-ceiling windows, his eyes filled with a tenderness I had never seen reserved for me. Everyone was waiting. Waiting to see how I would tear this brazen mistress to shreds, how I would cement my position as the one and only Mrs. Astor. They had all forgotten that when this man married me, he had promised to protect me for a lifetime. "This is my wife," he'd said. "From now on, you'll show her the proper respect." They all thought I would furiously tell her to get lost. But I was just so tired. I walked past her, got in my car, and drove to the family estate. Pushing open the door to the old man's study, I faced the chairman. "Grandfather," I said, "this arrangement... I don't want to continue it." "Let me go." 1 There’s an unwritten rule among the paparazzi in New York City. If a photographer was having a slow month, they knew just where to go: stake out Bradley Astor, the CEO of the Astor Corporation. He was guaranteed to have a new flame every month, and he made no effort to hide it. A few easy snaps were always in the cards. A man like him having a few scandals was normal, of course. But his wife? His wife had to maintain a pristine reputation, a dignified front. If you caught her husband in the act, you could take the evidence straight to her. Name your price, and she’d pay it without a fuss. But while the story was old, the players were new. A rookie from a fledgling tabloid, clutching a video, was sent my way by Bradley himself. I had just gotten home from the office. From my mansion perched atop a hill overlooking Central Park, the entire glittering expanse of the Manhattan skyline was mine to command. The voice on my phone droned on, a clumsy yet audacious attempt at extortion. "Mrs. Astor, two million is nothing to you. It's the price of a handbag. Just two million to make your husband's latest scandal disappear. It's a bargain, really." "When you've made up your mind, just call this number..." This one wasn't very bright. The first time he’d been subtle. The second time, he’d brazenly tapped on Bradley's car window. Bradley’s cars were hard to track; he changed them constantly, with hundreds in his collection. But for some reason, he’d been driving the same one for the past few days. In the video the paparazzo sent me, Bradley rolled down the window. A scantily clad woman was pouting in the passenger seat. Last month, when I'd received a similar package, that seat had been occupied by a rising starlet from Hollywood. Bradley took off his sunglasses, revealing a face of almost criminal perfection. He beckoned to the camera with a lazy finger. As the rookie got closer, Bradley’s voice was smooth, almost seductive. "Newbie? You've got a lot to learn. You take this kind of thing to my wife. You won't get a dime out of me." "Don't have her number?" He scribbled a few digits on a piece of paper and tucked it into the photographer's shirt pocket. Then, he turned to the woman beside him and clicked his tongue. "Get out." She leaned in closer, her voice a sugary purr. "Bradley, darling, didn't you say three days? It's only been a few hours..." Bradley tossed a black card at her and hit the door unlock button. "A few hours and you've already gotten us photographed. Get out before I have to throw you out." I shut off the video, my face a placid mask as I sat at the dining table. The servants laid out dinner, dish by fragrant dish. The grandfather clock in the hall chimed eight. 2 I glanced up at it. A gift from Bradley, brought back from France seven years ago. Now, it just looked old, its pendulum swinging with a tired, feeble motion. I was seventeen when I was accepted into Columbia. I met Bradley when I was eighteen. Back then, apart from his face, he was the picture of understated quietness. He knew everything but pretended to be a charmingly lost student, always claiming he’d forgotten what he'd learned in class and needed me to teach him. Within a few weeks, someone who knew him pulled me aside. "You think he's just a pretty face? He's the son of the Astor Corporation. His father is running for senator." After that, Bradley left the university scene but made the daily drive between Columbia and Midtown, ignoring all advice to the contrary. Those years were a blur of occasional fights and constant, dizzying love. My heart, a fortress, was breached and rebuilt, over and over. At twenty-five, after a thousand trials and tribulations, I married Bradley Astor. Our wedding was the event of the century. You can still find the newspapers from that day. One small tabloid, desperate for attention, ran a headline so sensational it overshadowed the major papers. It was flashy, but deeply disrespectful. The morning after our wedding, Bradley saw it. He read it, then calmly placed his water glass on top of it. I found out later that that issue was the last one the tabloid ever printed. Remembering these small moments, one by one, it hits me with the force of a revelation: Bradley and I were once so deeply in love. How did it all end up like this old clock, too weary to even swing? The silence of the grand hall was broken by the soft ding of the elevator. The display showed it had arrived at the third floor, and the doors slid open. Bradley stood there, his suit jacket draped over his arm. The harsh overhead light did nothing to diminish the sharp, handsome lines of his face. I glanced at him once, then returned my focus to the food on my plate. A minute later, I heard the soft thud of his jacket hitting the sofa. Then, the scent of expensive cologne and the warmth of his body enveloped me. Bradley stood behind me, his hands braced on the table, effectively trapping me in his embrace. His voice was a careless drawl. "Good evening, Mrs. Astor. Let's see... what's the price tag on this little scandal?" My phone was on the table. He tapped the screen a few times, opening my messages. "Two million? The press has a smaller appetite than you do for dinner. Anyone would think my net worth has depreciated." I set down my fork, my back straight, maintaining a careful fist's-width of distance between me and his chest. I ignored his question, changing the subject. "I'm not approving Karen Miller's transfer to head of marketing. I'll be rejecting her application." As expected, the moment he heard her name, Bradley straightened up. The cloying closeness vanished. He sat down across from me, draping his arms over the back of the chair, his gaze drifting to the beautiful night outside. "You don't need to worry about her." "Unless—" his eyes snapped back to mine, his chin resting on his hand as he studied me. "You have a problem with her?" I looked directly into his eyes, searching for something that was no longer there. Outsiders only knew that Bradley Astor changed lovers like he changed shirts. No one knew it was all a smokescreen for Karen. Two years ago, he'd sent her abroad to get a fancy degree, all so she could parachute into a top position at the company. It wasn't that I had a problem with her, personally. It was a matter of fact. The Astor Corporation had extremely strict hiring criteria. A degree from anywhere other than a top-tier Ivy League or equivalent wasn't even considered. Karen had a high school diploma. At eighteen, she was working in a department store. The school she "attended" abroad was a known degree mill. There was no loophole, no exception that could justify her placement. My voice was faint. "I'm discussing business with you. I'm not letting personal feelings get in the way." Bradley didn't answer. A moment later, a voice message played from his phone. It was breathy, seductive. "Bradley, honey, I think I left my panties in your car. When can I come get them?" The volume was deliberately turned up, the sound echoing slightly in the vast dining room. Bradley watched me, bringing the phone to his lips. His voice was lazy. "Wrong number, sweetheart." I looked at his cool, indifferent expression, trying desperately to remember the man who had once loved me. 3 In the beginning, Bradley would at least pretend to be sorry. The gifts he sent Karen were obscenely expensive, and one of them inadvertently took a spot I had reserved for a custom piece. The world of the ultra-rich is small; the tiniest clue can unravel the biggest secrets. That time, Bradley had raced home, handing over his phone, his credit cards, every password to every account he owned. "She helped me with a small thing. My cousin picked out the gift. I'll deal with him later." He offered a flimsy explanation, and I believed him. There was no reason not to. But then, somehow hearing that we'd had a huge fight, Karen appeared. On a rainy day, she knelt at the gate of our mansion. "Mrs. Astor, there's really nothing between Bradley and me. You have to believe us." Her desperate denial was the most damning confession of all. Rage burns away reason. At that moment, I didn't see the flicker of pity in Bradley's eyes as he looked down at her from the window. When a man feels pity for a woman, it’s the beginning of a romance between two people. Between three, it’s the beginning of a disaster. But even that was nothing. The hardest days were long behind me. If I remembered correctly, today was November 27th. The three-year term I'd agreed to with his grandfather was almost up. I looked at Bradley, about to speak. Suddenly, his phone rang. The voice on the other end was faint, but I could make it out. It was Karen. "The power's out at my place. It's completely dark, and I'm a little scared." "Stay put. I'm on my way." Bradley stood up. He glanced at me. I swallowed the words on the tip of my tongue. He didn't wait for me to speak again, just turned and walked out. After he left, I drove to the Astor family estate. The old mansion was a century-old colonial, its interior a mix of Western and Eastern decor, half-ancient, half-modern. When I entered, Bradley's mother, Eleanor, was on the sofa, a maid massaging her shoulders. She heard me, glanced over, then closed her eyes again. I didn't want to annoy her, so I went straight up to the second-floor study. "Grandfather—" I began, choosing my words carefully. "The three years are up. I want to leave the Astor family." I had known back then. Bradley had sent Karen away, ostensibly, but he was really funding her education abroad. I knew that while I was in the hospital, his private jet was making trips between New York and Australia. That was when my heart finally died. I went to his grandfather at a time when the family was facing both internal and external threats. He asked me to stay for three more years. If, in that time, Bradley didn't change his ways, he would personally grant me my freedom. The old man rocked in his mahogany chair, opening his eyes to look at me. "I thought that after three years, you would have gotten used to it. Why do you still want to leave?" When I didn't answer, he sighed. "When you insisted on marrying into this family, you should have expected this. Look at Eleanor. She was more fiery than you in her youth, but in the end, didn't she hold on to the title of Mrs. Astor? All those illegitimate children couldn't make a ripple. The son she bore, Bradley, is still the sole heir." Eleanor, Bradley’s mother, the woman who now spent her days chanting Buddhist sutras, had been a force to be reckoned with in her youth. "Do you know how she did it?" "How?" "Because I backed her. As long as I approved, no one could take her position. With my support, those other women were no threat to her." "Besides, I'm not talking to you about love. I'm talking about a deal. You've done an excellent job these past few years. The company, the family—you've held it all together. It would take too much time and effort for us to groom someone new. You leaving is a bad deal for us. You're smart enough to see that." If we set aside love and only talked business, it was undeniably the best deal I could ask for. I poured him some tea. "You know," I said softly, "if it wasn't about love, I wouldn't be sitting here today." I had considered it. Holding on to the title, ensuring no outsider could ever cross the threshold of the Astor family. But I didn't marry Bradley to become Mrs. Astor. I became Mrs. Astor because I married Bradley. I remember pushing him away once, telling him he wasn't free to marry whom he pleased, so what was he doing dating me. Bradley had frowned. "What do you mean I'm not free? If I want to marry you, I have plenty of ways. But you, if I'm out of your sight for one day, you're ready to marry someone else. Do you think I'm useless?" I didn't believe him. What brilliant plan could overcome so many obstacles? He never brought it up again, just slowly took over the corporation, embedding himself in the heart of the family's power. After I graduated, I joined the company as an intern. During the day, I learned the ropes at work. At night, Bradley gave me private lessons. I grew at a staggering pace. By the time the topic of marriage came up again, he was so powerful in the family that no one dared to object. But out of respect for his grandfather, he came up with a little scheme the next day to force the old man to face reality. "That little brat," the old man chuckled now. "Did he really think I was old and senile?" "He grabbed some dolled-up pretty boy from some entertainment company and pretended they were going to get married. He thought he could scare me. You thought that pretty face was all he had? He's the son of the Astor Corporation. His father is running for senator." The old man shook his head, a wry smile on his face. "These past few years, he's been trying to force a divorce." "Let me be clear. Once you leave the Astor family, I will not let you come back. Think carefully before you decide." I lowered my head, the seven short years of our marriage flashing before my eyes like a fleeting dream. "Leaving this family," I said, "is something I have been waiting three years for." He waved a dismissive hand. "Finish up your work. Someone will contact you when the time comes." When I came downstairs, Bradley's mother was still sitting on the sofa. I walked to the door, then turned back. "I won't be able to wish you well in the future, so I'll do it now. I hope you enjoy a long and healthy life." With that, I turned and left. The lights in the Astor living room were dim, shrouding Eleanor in shadow as she looked up. It seemed as if all the light in the room was being carried away by the figure hurrying out the door. For a moment, she saw herself as a young woman, walking out into the world. Lena, her maid, leaned in close. "Ma'am, it's late. You should rest." The room plunged back into darkness as Eleanor averted her gaze. "Let's go." 4 Sitting in the car, I remembered I had to tie up loose ends. I called the paparazzo and told him to come by for his check in the morning, buying the rights to all of Bradley’s latest indiscretions. It was several days before I heard from Bradley again. After Karen’s return, he had become much more discreet. Remembering my deal with his grandfather, I had my driver make a detour to pick Bradley up. The door to the apartment was open. Inside, a group of people were playing cards, Karen among them. She had just won a hand. The man across from her was laying it on thick. "You're on a roll tonight, Karen! Cleaning us all out. I'm about to lose my shirt. Have mercy on us!" Karen smiled, about to speak. Then Bradley looked up and saw me standing in the doorway. He took a drag from his cigarette and cursed. "The woman at the door is your actual sister-in-law. Are you blind? No wonder you can't win a hand tonight." The man saw me and shot to his feet, flustered. "Mrs. A… Mrs. Astor…" Karen’s face went pale. I knew immediately that Bradley had done this on purpose. He was always pulling stunts like this, trying to provoke me into demanding a divorce, yet he would never agree to one. His reasoning was infuriatingly simple: "She's young and naive, fun to have around for a while. But who would seriously marry her? One Mrs. Astor is more than enough." I scanned the room, then left my driver with instructions to bring Bradley home later. With a polite nod, I turned to leave. I had just reached the door when Karen blocked my path. The eighteen-year-old girl from two years ago was now twenty, still fresh-faced and vibrant. She was slightly out of breath, her voice a delicate whisper. "Mrs. Astor, I'm sorry. I never meant to destroy your family. I tried to leave, to forget him, but I couldn't." "I can't forget Bradley. I love him so much. But please believe me, I truly, from the bottom of my heart, never wanted to break up your home." "Between Bradley and me… we just met too late. If he had met me back then, I would be Mrs. Astor too…" "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that. I just… I sincerely want to apologize to you. If there's a next life, I'll spend it atoning for what I've done." "But in this life, I can't give him back to you. I'm so sorry." I looked her up and down. The girl who used to wear ten-dollar dresses was now draped in understated luxury. The shoes on her feet were worth more than three years of her old department store salary. So many sparrows, hoping to become phoenixes. I was one, once. Now, it was her turn. I didn't say a word. I wouldn't dignify her with a response. I wouldn't try to appeal to the conscience of a woman like her. If she had any understanding of morality, she wouldn't be so thrilled to be a rich man's mistress. "Just divorce him!" her voice called after me. "Let him go!" Inside, the others exchanged uneasy glances. Someone dared to look at Bradley's stone-cold expression. "Bradley, man, aren't you going after her? When a woman gets that angry, she starts talking divorce." Bradley stared at the image of the two-million-dollar check on his phone, his thoughts a mystery. After a long moment, he laughed. "Divorce? What's so bad about that? It'd be a relief."
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