Chapter 1 - The Pearls of Betrayal
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The Grand Palmer Hotel in downtown Chicago was a monument to old money and carefully curated illusions. Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen weeping willows from the painted ceilings, casting a warm, golden glow over nearly three hundred guests. These were the architects, the bankers, the city officials, and the wealthy clients who had trusted Harrison Custom Homes to build their dream estates. They were drinking expensive champagne, laughing at polite jokes, and celebrating the twentieth anniversary of the company my husband and I had built from absolutely nothing.
But I wasn't celebrating. I was sitting frozen at a table near the front, the air suddenly knocked out of my lungs, staring at the woman walking toward the stage on my husband’s arm. Her name was Lauren Mitchell. She was thirty-one years old, undeniably beautiful, and supposedly nothing more than Daniel’s executive assistant. She was wearing a champagne-colored evening gown that I instantly recognized. It was from a designer boutique downtown. I knew it because two weeks ago, I had found the shopping bag hidden in Daniel’s closet. He had looked me right in the eye, smiled his charming, boyish smile, and sworn it was a birthday present for his younger sister.
Apparently, his sister had also needed my dead mother’s pearls.
Around Lauren’s neck rested a single, flawless strand of pearls. They weren't just any pearls. They were the ones my father had purchased with overtime pay from the tire factory. My mother, Margaret, had worn them on her wedding day. She had worn them to my wedding. She had worn them the day my daughter, Ellie, was baptized. And three days before cancer finally took her from us, she had pressed them into my trembling hands, telling me to save them for Ellie.
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I knew every millimeter of that necklace. I knew the tiny, almost invisible gray blemish near the golden clasp. I could see that blemish right now, glittering under the ballroom lights, resting against the collarbone of my husband’s mistress.
“Mom, please don’t leave.” My thirteen-year-old daughter, Ellie, caught my hand just as my knees threatened to buckle. Her grip was startlingly strong. She looked at the woman on the stage, then up at the enormous digital presentation screen hanging above the podium. “Just five minutes, Mom. Please.”
