Chapter 1: The Front Seat
My husband buckled another woman into the front seat of my car while I stood in the freezing Manhattan rain like a stranger he had accidentally inconvenienced.
Not a cab. Not a company vehicle. My car.
The Mercedes SUV I helped pay for when David Sterling’s real estate firm was nearly collapsing. The same car where we once ate cheap takeout fries because we were too broke and exhausted to sit inside a restaurant. The same car where he had held my hand years ago and promised, “When I make it, Catherine, you’ll never sit behind anyone again.”
But that evening, outside his glass office tower, David opened the passenger door for his young secretary, Cecilia Moore, and said, “Cat, get in the back. She gets carsick.”
I stared at him through rain-soaked lashes.
“David,” I said carefully, “that is my seat.”