The Bargain With The Mistress's Brother

~~Claire~~ Three weeks ago, my husband, Harold Montague, died in a tragic car accident. He lost control of his car while speeding down the Bronx River Parkway and slammed into a tree, with his dįck down his mistress’s throat. When you get the call that the person you’ve spent ten years of your life with is gone, it breaks you. Even if the love has soured, even if the arguments outnumber the laughs. Death doesn’t care about the state of your marriage; it just rips through you. But that pain is nothing compared to the humiliation of how Harold died. With his mistress. Like some cheap, tasteless parody of Romeo and Juliet. Except Juliet wasn’t someone Romeo barely knew, and Romeo wasn’t supposed to go out mid-blowjob, leaving me to clean up the wreckage of both his car and his lies. “Mom, when is Dad coming home?” my four-year-old son, Kieran, asks for what feels like the millionth time in three weeks. I wish I could give him an easy answer. Maybe one of the numerous lies I’ve perfected over the years. Your father is an important man, Kieran; that was my favorite excuse. Certain obligations come with being the Chief Judge of the State of New York. They include late-night meetings, overnight conferences, out-of-the-blue business trips, and even presidential summons on Thanksgiving Day. But those were easy. Too easy. I can't use them now since Harold is dead. But deep down, I’m growing tired of explaining to Kieran that when people die, you don't see them anymore. He’s sitting cross-legged in the oversized chair across from me, playing Fruit Ninja. His hair is a tousled mess, and his cheeks are still rosy from his afternoon nap. I force myself to stand and walk to him. I kneel in front of him, placing my hands on the arm of the chair. “Sweetie,” I say, “remember what we talked about the last time? About your father?” “Uh-huh,” he replies. “Can you repeat what I said?” “That Dad is dead.” My chest tightens, but I press on. “And what does being dead mean, Kieran?” “That he’s not coming home anymore.” “Because?” “Because he lives under the ground now.” “Good, baby,” I say. “Very good.” I reach out and smooth his hair, my fingers lingering in the soft strands. He nods, satisfied with his own recitation, and returns to the game. I sit beside him with my hand still on his head. The tablet’s cheerful music fills the room, and for a moment, I pretend everything is fine. But then my vision blurs. I blink rapidly, willing the tears away. When I wipe at my eyes, my fingers come away wet. Damn it. Kieran doesn’t notice. He’s too engrossed in his game. Everyone says he looks like me. For the most part, I believe them. His bright blue eyes and dimpled smile are unmistakably mine. But when I'm staring from above like right now, getting a good view of his head and neck, I see so much of Harold. The shape of his skull, the curve of his ears, and the faint freckles scattered across the back of his neck. All Harold's. Fuçking Harold. I may not be religious, but for his sake, I hope there's an afterlife so he can burn in Hell. A knock at the door startles me. It’s ridiculous how much tension a simple knock can bring, but these days, every unexpected sound feels like a potential ambush. “Ma’am?” a deep voice calls from outside. I exhale, realizing it’s just one of the extra security guards I hired. “Come in,” I call out. The door swings open, revealing a burly man in a crisp black suit. He’s carrying an envelope. “Mail for you, ma’am,” he says. He steps forward and extends the envelope to me. “Thank you,” I reply, my fingers brushing the smooth surface as I take it from him. He nods and retreats without another word. The envelope is thick and cream-colored, embossed with the logo of Whitmore & Associates. It’s from Peter Whitmore, Harold’s estate lawyer. My stomach tightens as I slide a nail under the envelope’s seal, feeling the resistance give way. Inside is a stack of papers. I pull out the first page, my eyes falling on the title at the top: “Last Will and Testament of Harold Edward Montague.” I scan the text, seeing that Harold has set up trust funds for Kieran's education and welfare. Vivian, Harold's first child, gets Harold's winery worth twenty million. The second child, Grant, is named as the beneficiary of Harold's life insurance. The third child, Nate, is the designated beneficiary of Harold's retirement accounts." And me… “To my beloved wife, Claire Montague, maiden name Claire Quinlan, I leave one hundred thousand dollars.” I pause, going to read that part again. A hundred grand? That can't possibly be right. I flip to the next page, my hands trembling. “The remainder of my estate, including all liquid assets, investments, and personal accounts, totaling two hundred and eighty million dollars as of the date of this will, is left to Cassandra Penrose.” “What the fuçk?” I say. Kieran looks up from his game. “Mom?” Shït. Shït. Shït “I’m so sorry, baby.” I kiss the top of his head, my heart racing. Once Kieran has returned to his game, I stand and begin to pace the room, the papers clutched tightly in my hands. Cassandra Penrose? The same Cassandra Penrose? The nerve of that man. As if dying with his diçk in her mouth wasn’t scandalous enough, he left her everything? If they weren’t already dead, I’d be in jail right now with the kind of thoughts I’m having. This can’t be legal. I grab my phone and dial Peter Whitmore’s number. It rings a couple of times and then goes to voicemail. “Pick your damn call,” I mutter, careful not to say it too loud. I dump the documents on the couch, but right then, a folded piece of paper slips out of the envelope. I hadn’t noticed it earlier. I pick it up and unfold it, my heart sinking as I recognize Harold’s handwriting. My dearest Claire, If you’re reading this, I’m dead before seventy. I’d like you to know that the years I spent with you were the happiest moments of my life. You made me so happy that I wanted to keep you all to myself. That's why I gave you everything you desired and asked you to devote yourself to our family. I know it wasn't fair to you, but my love, nothing about infatuation often is. I remember the day we met like it was yesterday. You were this brilliant, shining college student, and I was just a lowly judge trying to make it through life after the death of his first wife. But when I saw you, I knew I had to have you. And I did, didn't I? I'm not proud of everything I've done, Claire. I've made mistakes, plenty of them. But my love for you has always been true. You were my rock, my confidante, my best friend. Now that I'm no longer holding you back, you're free to shine. Become the star you were meant to be. I'll be watching from wherever I am, proud of the woman you'll become. Don't waste your time grieving for me, Claire. I'm not worth it. Instead, use this newfound freedom to pursue your dreams. Take care of Kieran. He's a good kid, and he deserves the best. I know I wasn't the best father, but I tried. Well, that's all for now. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me for my transgressions. I don't deserve it, but I hope you can. Yours always, Harold. The letter slips from my fingers, and I feel my knees buckle. I sink to the floor, tears streaming down my face. How could he do this to me? He left me with almost nothing and a child to care for, and yet he has the audacity to encourage me to chase my dreams? I look up when I feel Kieran's small arms wrapping around me. I hadn't even noticed him leave his seat, but now he's standing beside me, his big blue eyes filled with concern. “Mom? Are you okay?” he asks. I force a weak smile. “Yes, baby. Mommy's fine. She just got some bad news.” “Is it about Dad?” I nod, feeling a fresh wave of tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. “Yes, sweetie. It's about your father.” I pull him into a tight hug, holding him close as I try to compose myself. “Mommy loves you so much, okay? I'm going to take care of you.” He nods. “I love you too, Mommy. And I miss Dad.” God help me, I miss Harold too. But I think I hate him. Ever since his death, I've been bombarded with requests for interviews, statements, and appearances. And I just know, deep down, that if anyone puts a microphone before me, I’m going to break down and curse Harold. The funeral was two weeks ago, and the memory of it still makes my skin crawl. The reporters didn’t exactly say, “How does it feel knowing your husband died with another woman?” But every “How are you holding up, Mrs. Montague?” and “What are your thoughts on the tragic circumstances?” screamed it loud enough. And the headlines about me—God, those headlines. It’s cruel of them to paint me this way, as a gold digger. It’s even crueler of the man I sacrificed ten years of my life for to give those vultures something to talk about, something to eat. It’s not true what they're saying about me. I loved Harold very much. With my entire heart. I loved the way he hummed Sinatra while brushing his teeth, the way he meticulously folded his ties, the way he brought me peonies—my favorite flowers—every Friday without fail. We were thirty-three years apart, but he made me feel seen in a way no man my age ever has. Of course, the media doesn’t care about that. They only care about the spectacle. To them, I’m just the trophy wife who got what she deserves. But I don’t deserve an unfaithful husband. No one does. I also don’t deserve to be left to start from scratch. As I hold Kieran, I realize I need to take action. I gently pull back from the hug. My hands cradle his face as I stare into his eyes. "Mommy needs to step out of the house," I explain. "To see Daddy's lawyer. Rachel will take care of you while I'm out, okay?” “Alright,” he says, his voice small. “Promise you’ll come back.” “I will, baby. I will.” That’s if I don’t get arrested for taking a detour on my way to see Peter, digging up Harold’s grave, and punching him in the face. If he thought he could leave me and our son with nothing while making Cassandra—or whoever the hell gets the money now—a millionaire, he underestimated the woman he married. This isn't over.