Brooke learned quickly that her tearful mother-knows-best act wasn’t working.
So she adapted.
If motherhood wouldn’t win Winston back, then maybe domestic devotion would.
The next week was a masterclass in psychological warfare.
She fired the private chef because his meals were “too rich.” She began waking up at five in the morning to prepare organic, wholesome dishes that looked like punishment disguised as nutrition.
Then came Wednesday.
Winston returned after a brutal fourteen-hour negotiation, walked into the dining room expecting Chef Henry’s signature bone-in ribeye, and instead found Brooke waiting for him at the head of the table like some saintly housewife from a low-budget tragedy.
In front of him sat boiled quinoa, steamed broccoli, and an unseasoned chicken breast so pale it looked emotionally defeated.
At the other end of the table, I was eating glorious Chinese takeout with chopsticks. Phoenix and Kendall sat beside me devouring pork dumplings.
Winston stared at his plate.
“What is this?”
“It’s a macrobiotic cleanse,” Brooke said softly, reaching for his hand. “You’ve been stressed. This will heal your gut.”
Winston looked from the damp chicken to my crispy spring rolls.
Then he said, very quietly, “Give me an egg roll.”
Brooke gasped and grabbed his wrist.
“No, Winston. She’s poisoning you. That food is full of preservatives.”
I didn’t speak.
I simply picked up one golden, crackling egg roll and held it out across the table.
Winston slapped Brooke’s hand away, leaned over, and took the egg roll directly from my chopsticks.
He bit into it.
The crunch echoed across the dining room.
He closed his eyes in relief.
Brooke looked as if she had been personally shot.
“How could you?” she whispered. “I spent three hours over a hot stove.”
Phoenix didn’t even look up from his phone. “Doing what? Threatening the chicken?”
Kendall snorted into her dumpling.
Brooke shot to her feet.
“You’re all brainwashed!” she screamed, dropping the fragile-whisper routine entirely. “This woman is a parasite. She doesn’t love you, Winston. She’s just waiting for you to die so she can take everything.”
I dabbed the corner of my mouth with a silk napkin.
“Actually, Brooke,” I said pleasantly, “I don’t need him to die. My prenup is notoriously ironclad. If we divorce, I get the Hamptons house, thirty percent of his liquid assets, and sole custody of the yacht. Much cleaner than murder.”
Winston kept eating.
He did not argue.
The comments lost their minds.
Live comment: She has the receipts.
Live comment: Winston choosing the egg roll over Brooke is cinema.
Live comment: The true heroine is unraveling in real time.
Brooke’s chest rose and fell sharply.
“You think you’re so smart,” she spat, “but you’re just a gold digger. And I’m going to expose you at the company gala this Saturday. I’m going as Winston’s plus-one. I’m his real family, and everyone will see you for what you are.”
She stormed out.
I turned to Winston. “Are you taking her?”
He looked about ten years older than he had five minutes earlier.
“The board is worried about rumors surrounding the family,” he said. “They want a united front. Brooke threatened to go to the press and say I’m keeping her children from her unless I let her attend.”
I smiled.
It was a slow smile. The kind that made Phoenix and Kendall both sit up straighter.
“Let her go,” I said.
The children froze.
They knew that tone.
It was the tone I used right before something expensive happened. Or someone’s life imploded.
“Mom,” Kendall whispered, leaning toward me. “What are we doing?”
“We,” I said, tapping my nails lightly against the table, “are going to let the true heroine have her spotlight.”
I turned to Phoenix.
“My sweet boy, call that private investigator you found on Discord. I need to know exactly what Brooke has been doing for the last ten years.”
Phoenix grinned.
Now we were speaking his language.