The First Wives: An addictive domestic thriller, page 21
But there’s nothing new on her social page.
I pace around the hotel room as long as I can, refreshing her page over and over, before I decide to wing it and start walking around the city. I grab the purse Sinclair included in the suitcase, along with a scarf and sunglasses.
Court will want to avoid the places tourists hang out, but Sophia, on the other hand—
she’ll want to see the art. So I Google some of the lesser-known museums and look for the ones with Michelin-starred restaurants within walking distance.
I know my husband.
He’ll agree to do her art thing, for a quality meal.
Near the first museum, I step into a French bookshop and buy a romance novel. Something a local might be reading at a café. And that’s what I do—order a cappuccino and croissant at a small café and sit at one of the outdoor tables. I pretend to read the book, while really gazing at the museum entrance across the street. I’m watching for couples, but it seems to be a lot of tour groups. So maybe this museum isn’t far enough off the beaten path.
I look up another museum, one closer to the hotel, then I hail a taxi, rather than walking across the city. As we drive, I watch out the window, looking for people holding hands.
That’s when I spot a couple that, from my vantage point, look an awful lot like Court and Sophia.
“Please stop—arrêtez-vous ici, s’il vous plaît,” I tell the driver and jump out of the taxi, tossing some paper money at him. Duolingo French lessons for the win.
I look around, right, then left, trying to find the couple I just saw walking by. I spend the next hour walking up and down the same two blocks. Going in and out of the various restaurants and cafés. But no matter where I look, I can’t find them. I feel foolish, my head hangs low, and I decide to go back to my hotel room.
As I turn the corner, I hear a familiar laugh, coming from a narrow alley.
It’s Sophia.
My heart rate spikes and my eyes dart around in a panic for someplace to hide. I narrowly duck into a door frame, hidden by the shadows, just as Sophia and Court breeze by.
“See, I told you that little wine and cheese shop was divine. Why don’t you ever listen to me?” she says, and laughs. I’m not sure, but something in her tone sounds different, like she’s trying too hard to be happy and cute.
I stay in my hiding spot for a few minutes before stepping out and heading back to the main street. I stay close to the edge of the buildings, peering around the side, hoping I haven’t lost them. But I can’t risk them seeing me. That was too close. I look up and down the street—and spot them getting into a taxi at the end of the block.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I hail a taxi and jump in.
“Follow that taxi!” I yell and point at their vehicle, which is turning right.
“Madame?” The driver questions me.
“Shit. Sorry… Suivez ce taxi,” I say. The driver shrugs and drives forward, turning right. I cheer him on for making the correct turn. Then I point again at what I think is Court and Sophia’s taxi. When it changes lanes, so does my driver. “Oui! Oui!”
“Ah, tu veux que je les suive,” the driver says, understanding my request. For several miles, we follow them. Thankfully, the traffic in Paris is ridiculous, so they never get too far ahead of us, and we blend in with the hundreds of other cabs and cars all seemingly going in the same direction.
When their taxi pulls to the side of the road to drop them off, my driver slows and pulls over a few cars back. He turns his body around and looks at me with a grin. “Like Bond girl,” he says in broken English.
“Oui.” I laugh, nodding. I stay in the cab for a few minutes and watch out the front window as Court and Sophia run across traffic to the other side of the street. There’s a small restaurant with a green awning. The place is packed—the outside tables are filled with couples and friends out having dinner. Sophia and Court go through the main entrance to be seated inside. Now’s my chance to get out without being seen.
I thank the driver for his help and give him a large tip.
“Bye, bye, Bond girl,” he says and gives me a wink.
I don’t immediately run across the street toward the restaurant. Instead, I stand next to a group of locals who are chatting and smoking cigarettes, hoping to blend in with them. I take out my phone to see how far I can zoom from here. But it’s not close enough to see what’s happening inside the restaurant. Not to mention all the cars driving by—they keep blocking the view.
Several more people have joined up with the smokers and they start moving en masse to cross the street. I stay with their group, using them as a human shield until I’m on the other side. They’re heading into the restaurant. But I’m scared if I go in, even with a group of locals, Sophia or Court might see me. So instead, I sneak down the side of the building, pressing my back against the cold stones. There’s a window to my right.
Oh my god, I can’t believe I’m this close.
I just have to figure out how to see inside the restaurant without looking like some peeping Tom, staring into the windows. I try to loosen up my stance, putting a foot up on the wall and casually leaning, like I’m waiting for friends to arrive. I take out my phone, and hold it up. Maybe if I flip the camera angle I’ll be able to see inside the window.
As soon as the screen flips, I squeak and fumble, nearly dropping it.
Sophia and Court are sitting at the table next to the window.
My breathing is labored as I return to the front of the building to make sure they can’t see me.
Goddammit. Why is this suddenly so much harder to do in person than it was in my mind? How am I going to get pictures of them? Sweat forms on my brow and palms. People are starting to look at me funny.
“Est-ce que ça va, madame?” A man puts his hand on my shoulder, checking if I’m okay.
I nod and move further down the street, away from the restaurant. If I stay here any longer, I’m bound to get caught. This would be so much easier if I had an accomplice. Someone who could go in and take the pictures for me, because Court and Sophia will recognize me if I walk in there.
I think about that for a few minutes.
They will recognize me… But what if I wasn’t the me they are used to seeing?
Sophia’s changed her looks to carry on this charade. So why can’t I? It’s a gamble to leave this restaurant without any evidence at all, considering I might not find them again. But it’s a gamble I’m willing to take.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Looking at my reflection in the mirror the next morning is like looking at a different woman. The remnants of last night’s extreme makeover are littered all around the bathroom. Scissors. Piles of hair. Empty bottles of temporary hair dye. Plastic gloves. Stained towels. Tubes of lipstick. Open eyeshadow palettes.
The hair is the most drastic change.
From long and blonde, to shoulder length and brown, with heavy bangs. The smoky-eye makeup and red lips help add to my new look. With a pair of fake reading glasses, I’ve gone from Malibu Barbie to some kind of sassy French librarian. I take a quick selfie, so I can share it with my friends later.
There’s something very liberating about changing your entire look.
I’ll have the freedom to go into any location and not worry that Sophia or Court will recognize me. As long as I don’t get too close.
Before leaving the hotel, I do a quick scan of Sophia’s social page, to see if there are any clues about their whereabouts today. Much to my surprise, there’s a picture of a historic building somewhere in Paris. I don’t know the location by the name alone, but a Google search says it’s five kilometers away, on the banks of the River Seine near the Eiffel Tower. The caption says:
My new flat. Is this even real life?
That bitch!
She stole my line—from the very first picture I posted to launch my lifestyle brand—I said, Is this even real life? Because being with Court felt like such a fairy tale. If I had only known what a nightmare it would turn into…
Heat rises in my face.
Cassie warned me Sophia might try and crawl into my skin.
She’s stolen my look, she tried to steal my kids, and apparently my social media is next. I storm out of the hotel and take a taxi to the address of her new apartment. The rage I’m feeling right now has me contemplating something dramatic. Like screaming her name at the top of my lungs until she opens up a window so I know what floor she’s on. Then calling Interpol to tell them she’s building a bomb or something equally as terrifying. See how she likes tangling with me then.
Instead, I walk over to the tree-lined path along the River Seine, and gaze out over the sparkling water. Taking slow, deep breaths, trying to calm myself…
“You came here to get evidence. Not cause a scene,” I remind myself. So I find a nice bench with a view, sit down, and get on my phone, looking for property information, while keeping an eye on who’s coming and going, to find out who exactly owns Sophia’s new apartment. After paying one hundred euros on a property website, I pull up the sales report. It looks like the entire fourth floor of the building was recently purchased by one Monsieur Court McMillian. He paid a whopping thirty-six million euros for the place. And from the pictures, it was previously split into several smaller apartments. I’m sure he paid the enormous bill for the renovations to transform the multi-flat into Sophia’s luxury dream home. I know he didn’t spend that much on our family home. Not even a quarter of it. I just can’t wrap my head around his thinking.
Well, they can both go fuck themselves. I’ve done my research. In the state of Florida, marital assets, like property purchased during a marriage, are split equally during a divorce—even with a prenup. So in reality, this apartment isn’t Sophia’s at all.
It’s half mine.
That is, if our marriage is even legal. Ugh! All of this is so frustrating. One minute I feel empowered, and the next I feel completely overwhelmed and stupid. My bottom lip quivers. What the hell am I even doing? Sitting on a bench across the street from Sophia’s new apartment. Am I just going to sit here all day, when I should be home, with the twins. Tears well up in my eyes when I think about my kids, the reason I’m here, going through all this hoopla in the first place. I would do anything for them, absolutely anything.
“Alright, pull yourself together, do what you came to do, then you can go home.” I wipe the tears, straighten up, and look at my laptop.
I check my social page, so I can see my babies’ faces—it looks like the kids and I are having a grand old time at the farm baking pies with Aunt Tippy. Then I check Sophia’s page again. She posted another picture—only moments ago. A fresh piece of quiche Lorraine, with two forks taking a scoop from it at the same time. She’s tagged the café, and with a quick click on their business page, I discover it’s walking distance from here. Just across the bridge heading toward the Champ de Mars park.
I put my laptop in my bag, adjust my fake glasses, and start speed walking, hoping I can catch up with them before they finish eating at the café. Years of chasing Ruby and Rowen has prepared me for this. I’ll have to remember to thank Sinclair for sending me sensible ballet flats for daytime wear.
The streets are bustling with tourists, but I still make it to the café in under fifteen minutes. Barely breaking a sweat.
Please, let them still be inside, I beg the universe when I see the blue facade of the café. Small circular tables filled with brunch guests dot the sidewalk out front. I can tell the inside of the café is going to be cramped—there’s no way I won’t be seen.
“But I’m not me. I’m someone else,” I remind myself, my fingers instinctively reaching up to touch my short dark hair. Why would they pay any attention to some random French woman going in to buy a coffee and croissant?
The bells jingle when I enter, and I get in line with a group of young girls, hoping to blend in. My eyes survey the busy restaurant floor and I spot the happy couple at a table near the back. I don’t want to look too obvious, but the savory café air is choking me. I’m certain Paris isn’t having an earthquake, but I swear the floor wobbles under my feet.
Get some evidence, my brain screams at me.
“Oh!” I gasp, remembering my mission. I quickly pull my phone from my pocket and start taking as many pictures of Court and Sophia as I can, using the row of girls placing their order in broken French as a barrier. One looks at me and smiles, following my gaze and giggling when she sees I’m staring at and taking pictures of Court.
His hand gently brushing crumbs from Sophia’s lips.
Her big, adoring eyes.
Him holding her hand as he helps her from her seat and guides her to the door.
Shit. They’re leaving. I turn to chase after them—but the woman at the counter yells something at me in French, which my brain is too scrambled to recognize. I throw some money at her, even though I didn’t order anything, then run out of the café.
“Where did you go?” I mumble and scan the street until I catch a glimpse of Court walking around the corner toward the park.
For the next two hours, I follow them. Capturing dozens of incriminating pictures. Kissing, touching, laughing. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear Sophia was putting on a performance for a romantic comedy—she’s practically Emily in Paris, with all of her over-animated expressions and poses.
The Sophia I know is a much more serious woman. But that was the old Sophia. This is the new Sophia—wearing clothes like I might wear, her hair styled just like mine used to be, her facial features eerily like mine. While I, with this new dark hair and smoky makeup, look a lot more like Sophia used to. Oh, the irony.
Is she pretending to be me right now? Is that what this is all about? She thinks I am overly cheery and dramatic, like a character in a top-ten Netflix show? Court seems oblivious. He’s only half paying attention to her antics. He keeps getting on his phone, making calls and probably checking emails. He’s never been great at being present in the moment…
Regardless, she’s doing enough fawning and kissing on him for me to capture more than enough evidence. There’s no judge in the world who would call me crazy when they see these pictures. I’m feeling quite smug as I follow the pair back across the bridge and take a final picture of them going into the apartment building together.
That shot is the icing on the cake.
I collapse on the same bench I sat on earlier to look at all the pictures I just took, transferring them from my phone to my computer so I can see them better. My nose crinkles. Ugh. I hope the judge doesn’t think that’s me with Court, and not Sophia. I zoom in and out. I’m so focused on my screen, I scream when a young woman sits down next to me.
“Excusez-moi!” she exclaims with a panicked look on her face. I laugh and shake my head and try to apologize, putting my computer away. I’d better get back to my hotel—I’ve got more than enough evidence. I throw a final glance at Sophia’s new apartment, when I see someone standing in the window on the fourth floor. I squint—is that Sophia? Yes, I think so. Her face is somber and she’s looking right at me.
Then she holds up a sheet of paper and presses it against the glass.
There’s a single word written on it.
RUN
THIRTY-NINE
I shouldn’t let Sophia keep controlling my life. But when someone says “run”, you run. My muscles fire as I leap from the bench and start pounding the pavement. I was thankful for the ballet flats earlier, but after spending hours walking and now running, my feet are screaming in pain. Once I’m a few blocks from the apartment, I slow down and flag a taxi.
The driver asks where I’m going. “Où allez?”
I squeak out the hotel address between heavy breaths and a pounding heart. That was probably the weirdest thing—no, no, what am I saying? That’s probably the least weird thing to happen to me when it comes to Sophia.
After a terrifying taxi ride, with me craning my neck in circles like an owl, I’m standing in front of my hotel room door. I set my bag down so I can lift my shirt a little to retrieve my key card from the money belt, where I’ve stashed it alongside my passport. But before I swipe the key, I spot something stuck on the side of my bag. I squat down to look at a small flat white disk.
That’s odd. I don’t recall my bag having a tag like that.
I use my nail to pick at the side of it and it comes off rather easily—the sticky substance holding it to my bag gets on my fingers as I turn the object over and over in my hands. I’m not one hundred percent certain, but I think this is an AirTag. A kind of tracking beacon.
That girl on the bench must have stuck it to me—and now I’ve led someone to my exact location. Was that why Sophia was warning me? When did she figure out I was following them? And who exactly am I running from? The only logical conclusion is my husband.
Well, the joke’s on you, Court. Track me all you want. I’m still filing for a divorce when I get back to Florida. I have all the evidence I need to prove to a judge I’m not crazy, you are still with Sophia, and you can’t be trusted to have custody of our kids.
I hear a noise and glance up. There are two large men in suits walking down the hallway. I stand and look around for other hotel guests. But I’m all alone. The hair on the back of my neck stands up.
Sophia’s warning.
RUN
Shit, shit, shit. I fumble with the key card and just as the men reach my location, I swipe it and duck into my room, slamming the door shut behind me and flipping the safety lock. Oh my fucking god. Did Court send these men after me? He’s not just tracking me online?
My heart pounds in my ears and I look through the peephole.
“Oh my god, oh my god,” I’m chanting. But wait—what’s this? They aren’t facing my door—they are going into the room across the hallway. I turn around and press my back against the door.
