Chapter 5 - The Sisterhood of Deceit
On Tuesday afternoon, two days before the birthday dinner, Claire took the Metra train into the city. She didn't drive; she didn't want Ethan checking her car’s GPS history.
She wore a dark camel coat, oversized tortoiseshell sunglasses, and pulled her dark hair back into a low chignon. She looked like hundreds of other affluent North Shore women spending an afternoon shopping on the Gold Coast.
Her destination was not a boutique. It was a sun-drenched café on the corner of Dearborn and Elm.
Sitting at an outside table beneath a striped awning, sipping an iced Americano, was Julianne Moreau.
In person, without the blur of an airport crowd or the distance of a telephoto lens, Julianne was striking. She had the sculpted, athletic elegance of a woman who spent four mornings a week with a personal trainer and never ate carbohydrates after three in the afternoon. Her skin was flawless, her auburn hair catching the midday light like polished copper. On the table rested an iPad displaying an architectural layout—the very same Fulton Market loft.
Claire walked over. She did not hesitate. She did not introduce herself with theatrical flair.
She simply pulled out the metal wire chair opposite Julianne and sat down.
Julianne startled, looking up from her screen with an immediate, practiced frown of urban annoyance.
“Excuse me? I’m actually waiting for someone—”
“He’s not coming, Julianne,” Claire said.
The voice was quiet, cultured, and ice-cold.
Julianne paused, her green eyes narrowing as she assessed the woman sitting across from her. She took in the quality of Claire’s coat, the absence of manicured desperation, the steady, unblinking authority in her gaze.
“Do I know you?” Julianne asked, her tone defensively sharp.
Claire reached into her purse, removed a single item, and set it on the marble tabletop between them.
It was Ethan’s silver Cartier wedding band. Claire had taken it from his jewelry tray that morning while he was in the shower, replacing it with an identical, cheap replica she had bought from a costume jewelry stall on State Street.
Inside the band, engraved in delicate script, were the words: *Ethan & Claire — Forever My North Star — 2013.*
Julianne looked at the ring. Then she looked at Claire’s left hand, where an identical platinum and diamond band caught the sunlight.
The color drained from Julianne’s face with horrifying rapidity. The polished, corporate composure crumbled, leaving behind a stark, naked shock that made her look ten years older.
“You’re... you’re Claire,” Julianne whispered.
“I am Ethan’s wife,” Claire replied evenly. “The woman whose home equity paid for the Italian marble island in your loft on Green Street.”
Julianne’s hand flew to her throat. She knocked over her iced coffee; the brown liquid pooled across the marble table, soaking the edge of her designer leather portfolio. Neither woman moved to clean it up.
“He told me... he told me you were divorced,” Julianne stammered, her voice dropping into a frantic, breathy whisper. “He told me the decree was finalized eight months ago. He said you were living in California with your family... that you couldn't handle the loss of the pregnancy and had moved on.”
Claire tilted her head. A dark, ironic pity stirred inside her chest.
Marcus had warned her: *Ethan is an architect of parallel fictions.* Ethan hadn't told Julianne that he was keeping a docile wife in the suburbs while playing bachelor in the city. He had told Julianne an entirely different tragedy—casting himself as the abandoned, heartbroken husband who had gracefully given his unstable ex-wife a quiet exit to heal on the West Coast.
“Did he tell you the Naperville house was sold?” Claire asked softly.
Julianne nodded numbly, her eyes wide with mounting horror. “He said... he said the closing was delayed because of probate issues with your father’s estate. He told me the money we used for the loft was his distribution from his firm’s equity partnership.”
Claire reached into her coat and brought out a thin, blue folder. She slid it across the coffee-stained marble.
“Those are the wire transfers from *Bennett Asset Management*,” Claire said. “They originated from an account bearing my social security number, drawn against the mortgage on the house where Ethan and I slept together last night.”
Julianne opened the folder with shaking hands. Her manicured nails trembled against the paper. As her eyes scanned the account numbers, the signatures, and the dates—dates where Ethan had supposedly been comforting Julianne through her own anxieties—the younger woman began to hyperventilate.
“Oh, God,” Julianne gasped, pressing a napkin to her mouth. “Oh, God... I’m an officer of a publicly traded company. If Vanguard finds out that I accepted funds derived from bank fraud and commingled community assets... my license... my career...”
“Your career will be the least of your concerns if Marcus Vance files the federal wire fraud complaint on Friday morning,” Claire said, leaning in, her voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper. “You will be named as a co-conspirator. Your name will be in the *Chicago Tribune* business section. Your assets will be frozen under the same injunction that takes Ethan down.”
Julianne looked up, tears finally spilling over her mascara, ruining the perfect, sculpted mask of the marketing executive.
“I didn't know, Claire. I swear to you on my mother’s life, I didn't know. He showed me lease agreements. He showed me what looked like a divorce decree signed by a judge in DuPage County!”
“Ethan is very good with Adobe Acrobat,” Claire noted dryly. “He’s been forging documents since his second year of law school.”
“What do you want from me?” Julianne sobbed quietly, looking around the terrace as if expecting police cruisers to pull up to the curb. “Do you want me to leave the city? I’ll pack today. I’ll break the lease on the loft—”
“No,” Claire interrupted, her voice firm, commanding, and absolute. “You will do exactly what Ethan expects you to do.”
Julianne blinked through her tears. “What?”
“Thursday night. The Chicago Athletic Association,” Claire said. “You will wear the navy silk dress Ethan bought you at BHLDN. You will stand by his side during the cocktail hour. You will smile at the managing partners. You will play the devoted, brilliant marketing vice president who helped him close the biggest account of his life.”
“Why?” Julianne whispered, terrified. “Why would you want me there?”
Claire picked up the Cartier wedding band from the table, rolled it between her thumb and forefinger, and slipped it back into her purse.
May you like
“Because, Julianne,” Claire said, standing up and looking down at the woman who had shared her husband’s bed, “when the ceiling collapses, I want to make sure both of you are standing directly beneath the chandelier.”
***
