Chapter 222
I didn’t expect Yvonne to ask me that. Had she spotted Tracy in her own photos? Was she afraid of consequences, but had no one else to confide in, so she came to me?
My reply was a single, clipped word: [No.]
A beat of silence, then a new message: [Oh… Mom, did you actually look at all the pictures I sent?]
[Not all,] I texted back.
Silence descended from her end after that.
Yvonne’s questions reeked of fear. Yet, by posing them to me, she unwittingly revealed her alliance with Sally–both diligently sealing cracks, guarding their shared secret as if I were the adversary.
August loomed, heralding the hotel’s grand reopening. Overnight, work avalanched. I swiftly hired two seasoned managers to absorb the brunt. Jared, too, occasionally deigned to assist.
One post-meeting afternoon, Amy cornered me, her smile a fraction too wide. “Victoria! When might you have a free moment?” Her tone was artificially bright. “My husband owns a lovely salon downtown. You simply must experience it.”
The overture stank of manufactured goodwill. Women navigate intricate layers of calculation, and frankly, our radar for artifice often surpasses men’s.
My instincts had honed to razor sharpness, casting a skeptical hue over every interaction. Sudden kindness invariably comes with strings attached. Amy knew the impending divorce. Was this fishing for insider information?
True, she was married, her husband a potential obstacle. But ambition has a way of picking locks. Once Jared was single, he’d be a prime target for a swarm of opportunistic women. An inevitability.
I declined Amy’s offer. A flicker of genuine disappointment crossed her face before she smoothed it into practiced neutrality. “Perhaps another time,” she murmured, retreating gracefully.
Inside a restroom stall, I froze mid-motion as hushed voices drifted under the door. Tracy’s name hooked my attention like a barb.
“Tracy resigned, claiming she was going to Aurelia to have her baby,” one voice murmured. “But my friend heard the stress triggered a miscarriage. Who knows if she’ll come back?”
“What a raw deal for Tracy,” another chimed in, sympathy laced with gossip. “Gave her all to this place, just to be forced out because some wife couldn’t handle her jealousy.”
“Keep your voice down!” a third voice cut in sharply. “She’s actually in today.”
“Well, it’s true,” the second voice persisted, dropping to a whisper. “Jared and Tracy, they just fit better.”
“Alright, that’s enough!” the first voice snapped, effectively ending the conversation.
Footsteps receded. I emerged from the stall. Tracy miscarried? Unburdened, then she was poised for a vengeful return.
Tracy’s last lecture had preached cold strategy: men as instruments, not prizes. But the raw fervor in her eyes whenever Jared’s name arose had betrayed her. Could she truly practice such detachment when her own heart was hopelessly entangled?
Sally’s past aversion was ancient history. Now, with Sally and Yvonne firmly in her pocket, Tracy wielded formidable leverage. Her return would likely see Jared effortlessly reeled back in.
The five-month cooling period might be abruptly truncated. Perhaps Jared himself would soon be sliding those divorce papers across my desk with finality.
Emerging from a conference room after a grueling strategy session with the hotel brass, I found myself clutching a critical document requiring Jared's immediate signature. Deciding efficiency trumped avoidance, I headed for his office.
His office was deserted. A quick query to his assistant revealed his refuge: the secluded left-wing smoking lounge.
I made my way there. It was Jared’s sanctum, his solitary smoking haunt–a place employees wisely avoided, unwilling to risk encountering him in a foul mood.