Sarah met Catherine and Geoffrey at the door to tell them there was gazpacho waiting for them. Suddenly hungry, Catherine followed the maid into the dining room. A bowl of the cold tomato soup sat at her spot at the table, and she ate it slowly, dipping crusty bread into the thick liquid. When she finished, she left the dining room and wandered around the house.

As she passed Sean's study, she heard voices coming from behind the thick doors. She paused, trying to listen, but the doors muffled the words. Suddenly, one of the doors swung open, and Geoffrey stepped out. The bodyguard almost slammed into her.

​​

"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Blair," she said.

Catherine sighed. She knew Geoffrey was going to report back to Sean, but she hadn't expected it to happen so soon. She gave Geoffrey a questioning look, but the bodyguard couldn't respond—Sean was at the door.

"I didn't realize you were working from home today," Catherine said.

"I am," he said flatly.

"Have you finished your work?" she asked.

"For now," he said.

"Well, I'm going to go take a nap," she said.

She turned away, feeling like a caged animal. She couldn't go anywhere without bodyguards and employees reporting back to Sean. She couldn't even have the house to herself—Sean barely left the estate, conducting most of his work from his study instead of his office in the city.

"Catherine," Sean said, his voice serious. "I need to talk to you."

She turned around to look at him, "About what?"

"Do you have shares of the Feather Textile Company?" he asked.

She looked into his eyes and realized that Geoffrey had already told him everything. There was no point in lying.

"Yes, I do," she said.

"So you're now an official shareholder with access to dividends," he said.

"Yes," she said. "Or I will be as soon as the paperwork is finalized."

"I see," he said. "Enjoy your nap. We'll talk later."

"I may have to go out again in the next few days," she said. "To deal with the paperwork and stuff like that."

"Fine," he said. "But always with Geoffrey."

"Okay," she said.

He retreated into his office, and she went upstairs, wondering if any of the maids she passed had also been assigned to watch her and report on her behavior. Living with Sean was like living under a microscope.

In her room, she grabbed her computer and sent several emails, and made several wire transfers. It took her the entire afternoon, but when a new email pinged into her inbox, she smiled with satisfaction—her efforts had been worth it.

The next morning, she sat in a quiet café with Geoffrey. Geoffrey sipped from a cup of tea, but Catherine was too nervous to drink. She spun her cup around and around on the table, watching the clear green liquid swirl inside.

"Who are you going to meet, Mrs. Blair?" Geoffrey asked.

"You don't need to know," she replied.

"It would be better if I did," Geoffrey said. "It's easier for me to protect you if I know what's happening."

"It'll be fine," she said, but her words sounded unconvincing.

A few minutes later, a middle-aged man came rushing over to their table. He was toned and tall, and his hair was dark and thick, but something was unsettling about him. His teeth were too fake and white, but his smile didn't reach his eyes.

"Hello, Miss Stewart," he said, sitting down. "I'm Carl Jordan."

"Hello, Dr. Jordan," she said coolly. "It's Mrs. Blair now."

She smiled at his reaction—his eyes widened, and he paled slightly. The name of Blair was quite powerful.

"I got your message, and I..." he said.

She raised her hand to silence him and took a sip of her tea. She savored the rich, earthy flavor and then lowered the cup to the table.

"I...," he said again.

"Aren't you going to order something, Dr. Jordan?" she asked. "The tea here is fantastic. It's a great way to mix business with pleasure—which is something you quite enjoy, isn't it?"

Dr. Jordan's eyes narrowed, and his jaw clenched, but he waved for the waitress and ordered a cup of tea. When it arrived, he splashed some sugar and milk into the cup and took a sip.

"Okay," he said. "Let's get to the point here. But first, can you ask your friend to give us some privacy?"

"Geoffrey is my bodyguard," Catherine said. "She's not going anywhere."

Dr. Jordan glared at Geoffrey and then at Catherine, "What do you want from me?"

"First, I want to review the facts," Catherine said. "I want to make sure that you understand that I'm a serious woman, and I expect serious answers. Lying to me won't help either of us."

She reached into her purse and pulled out a large manila envelope. She passed the envelope to Dr. Jordan and watched as he tore at it. He reached inside and pulled out a stack of glossy photos. He flipped through them, and his expression was growing tighter and tighter.

"How did you get these?" he asked, lowering the photos to the table.

Catherine reached across the table and grabbed them. She flipped through them one by one—each image was different. One was taken at a restaurant as he and a beautiful young woman toasted with champagne—his free hand rested on her bare thigh. Another was taken from the street, as he and a different woman embraced naked in front of a window. Others showed him and various women in the backseats of cars, in hot tubs, and on a balcony, naked and contorted into various positions.

Catherine chose a photo and held it up. The image was taken in the hospital, and it showed him standing in an examination room with his trousers around his ankles. A blonde nurse knelt before him.

"This is my favorite," Catherine said. "But I wonder if your wife would agree."

"How did you get these?" he asked.

Catherine shrugged, "I asked some questions and made some wire transfers. It wasn't easy, but it wasn't terribly difficult either. You're not exactly a discrete man, Dr. Jordan."

"What do you want?" he asked.

"I want you to listen to me very carefully," she said. "I know about the prenup you signed with your wife, and I know that she'll take everything in a divorce. I also know that she's caught one of your affairs before. You managed to talk your way out of that one, but I doubt she'd be so forgiving again."

Sweat shone on Carl's tanned forehead, and he swallowed hard.

"Besides," Catherine continued. "I believe some of these women are your patients. I think the medical board would be incredibly interested to know you're having affairs with your patients."

"What do you want?" he asked.

"Do you remember a DNA test you conducted for Lawson Stewart?" she asked. "Think hard—it would have been about four years ago."

"DNA test?" he asked. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Catherine sighed and shook her head, "Oh dear, Dr. Jordan. Is that what you plan to say to your wife when she confronts you about these affairs? I'm afraid it's not very convincing."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said.

"So forgetful," she sighed. "Tell me, is this forgetfulness the reason you almost killed Wendy Tyler?"

Dr. Jordan's face grew pale beneath his tan, "What the hell do you know about her?"

"I know that she suffered serious memory loss because you gave her the wrong medication," she said. "I know that you also might have had an affair with her—it seems like a pretty big coincidence, no?"

"That was deemed an accident by the medical board," he said. "My malpractice insurance took care of her and her family."

"Yes, but you're still on probation, no?" she asked. "It would be unfortunate for you if you got involved in any more scandals."

"What do you want?" he asked.

"What I want is the truth," she said. "I want the world to know that you're a lying, cheating adulterer who sleeps with and poisons his patients. I want you to lose your medical license and your family. I want you to lose it all."

"Come on," he said. "There must be something else you want. Money? A favor of some sort? Pills? Just tell me."

"As I said, I want the truth," she replied. "But I'll let you choose. Either the world can know the truth about you, or the world can know the truth about my uncle."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said.

She reached into her purse and slammed a wrinkled piece of paper onto the table, "Do you recognize this DNA test? That's your signature at the bottom."

"I do," he said.

"Good," she said. "I want you to admit that you forged it for my uncle."