The taxi dropped me off at the corner of my own street. I paid the driver and waited until he disappeared around the bend before I moved. My mind was eerily calm, like the eye of a hurricane—all the destruction swirling around me, but at my center, perfect clarity.

I slipped into the garden through the side gate, using the key I kept hidden beneath a loose stone. The back door would be unlocked—Mark never bothered with security when he thought I was thousands of miles away. His arrogance would be his downfall.

Inside, the mudroom was mercifully empty, though I could hear the party continuing in full swing. I moved silently through the kitchen, noting with disgust that they'd raided my wine collection. Three empty bottles of my favorite Bordeaux sat on the counter, their corks tossed carelessly aside.

"Perfect," I whispered to myself.

In our bedroom—our bedroom—I found my suitcase still packed from the trip. I'd planned to unpack tomorrow, when I'd imagined surprising Mark with my early return. Instead, I used it now, swapping my travel-wrinkled business attire for something more... appropriate.

Victoria Dalton had always favored conservative, expensive clothing—the kind that announced wealth without shouting it. The kind that made people stand straighter when she entered a room. I pulled out a navy Chanel suit I rarely wore, along with pearl earrings that had been my mother's.

"Too young," I muttered, studying my reflection.

I reached for the makeup case in my bathroom drawer, applying a heavier hand than usual. Deeper foundation to suggest Victoria's age, more pronounced lines around my eyes, a more severe lip color. I pulled my hair back in a tight chignon, securing it with pins until not a strand escaped.

"Better," I said to my reflection.

Victoria Dalton had always looked down on me, her nose tilted at just the right angle to convey her disapproval. I practiced her expression in the mirror—that perfect blend of condescension and cold authority that made lesser mortals tremble.

"Almost there," I whispered.

I slipped on a pair of low-heeled pumps—Victoria never wore anything flashy—and took a deep breath. The woman in the mirror looked nothing like the Eleanor who had left for Tokyo three weeks ago. She looked like a woman who could destroy lives with a single glance.

I straightened my shoulders and headed for the living room.

The music hit me like a physical force as I entered. Tiffany was still sprawled on my sofa, surrounded by her friends. They were laughing, drinking my wine, eating food I hadn't purchased.

"Excuse me," I said, my voice carrying over the music.

The room fell silent, all eyes turning toward me. Tiffany's face went blank with confusion.

"I'm sorry," she said, setting down her glass. "We didn't hear you come in. I thought Mark said you weren't—"

"I'm Victoria Dalton," I interrupted, letting my gaze sweep over the room like a cold wind. "Mark's mother."

Tiffany's face drained of color. She scrambled to her feet, my silk robe slipping off one shoulder.

"Mrs. Dalton!" she stammered, suddenly aware of her state of undress. "I didn't—we were just—"

"Having a party in my son's house," I finished for her, my voice crisp as autumn leaves. "Using my crystal. Wearing my clothes."

One of Tiffany's friends—a rail-thin girl with bright pink hair—giggled nervously. "Is this, like, a joke? Mark said his mom was in the Hamptons."

I turned my gaze to her, letting it linger until she looked away. "I cut my visit short. One does, when one hears rumors about what's happening in one's son's home."

Tiffany smoothed the silk robe—my robe—over her knees, trying to cover herself. "It's not what it looks like, Mrs. Dalton. We were just celebrating. Mark said you wouldn't mind."

"Did he?" I raised an eyebrow. "And where is my son now?"

"He's... he's working late," Tiffany said, her eyes darting around the room. "He said he'd be back later."

"How convenient." I moved further into the room, noting how they all shrank back as I passed. "And these are your friends?"

"Yes," Tiffany nodded eagerly, as if this were a test she could pass. "This is Jessica, and Mike, and—"

"I don't need their names," I cut her off. "They can leave."

"What?" Tiffany looked startled.

"Now." I pulled out my phone, checking the time with deliberate slowness. "I need to evaluate whether you're suitable for the Dalton name without an audience."

The room cleared quickly after that. Tiffany's friends scrambled for their things, shooting her sympathetic glances as they fled. Within minutes, we were alone.

"Sit," I commanded, gesturing to the chair across from me.

Tiffany sank into it, pulling the robe tighter around her. "Mrs. Dalton, I can explain—"

"First," I said, leaning forward, "that robe. It's mine. Go put something else on."

She hurried upstairs, returning moments later in a sundress that I recognized as something I'd left hanging in the guest room closet. Better, but still not good enough.

"Stand," I ordered.

She rose unsteadily.

"Posture," I critiqued, circling her slowly. "A Dalton woman stands like she owns the room, not like she's afraid of it."

Tiffany straightened her spine.

"Better." I nodded. "Now, tell me. What exactly were you thinking, hosting a party in my son's home without his mother's permission?"

"I thought—" she began, then stopped herself. "Mark said you'd be gone for another week. He said you never used this house anyway, always traveling for work."

"And the crystal?" I moved to the coffee table, picking up one of my mother's tumblers. "These are antiques. Family heirlooms."

"I didn't know," Tiffany whispered, her eyes wide. "Mark just said to use whatever we wanted."

I set the glass down with a sharp click. "A Dalton woman would know better than to serve guests with anything less than perfect grace. Your hosting skills leave much to be desired."

Tiffany's eyes filled with tears. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Dalton. I really want to make a good impression."

"Clearly." I moved to the window, pulling out my phone as if checking messages. Instead, I quickly snapped photos of the room—the empty bottles, the cigarette butts in my crystal ashtrays, the general destruction of my home.

"I just—I love Mark so much," Tiffany continued desperately. "He said you'd understand. He said you wanted him to be happy."

I turned back to her, letting a small smile play at my lips. "Did he now?"

"He said you two have an arrangement," Tiffany blurted out. "That your marriage is just for show now."

I raised my eyebrow, filing that little tidbit away for later. "Is that what he told you?"

"He said you're never home anyway," Tiffany continued, gaining confidence. "That you're too busy with your career to be a real wife."

I nodded slowly, as if considering her words. Inside, I was memorizing every detail for the divorce proceedings.

"Well," I said finally, "we'll see about that."

"Well," I said finally, settling into the armchair across from Tiffany, "we'll see about that."

She looked up at me with those wide, innocent eyes that had probably fooled Mark completely. "Mrs. Dalton, I really want to make a good impression. I know I messed up with the party, but I can fix this."

"Can you?" I tilted my head, studying her. "A Dalton woman understands that some first impressions are lasting ones."

Tiffany swallowed hard, her fingers twisting in my robe—no, her dress now. "Please give me another chance."

I stood up slowly, letting my gaze wander around the room—at the empty wine bottles, the scattered glasses, the cigarette butts in my imported ashtrays. "You know, in our family, we believe in traditional values."

"Traditional values," Tiffany repeated eagerly, like a puppy waiting for a treat.

"Yes." I moved to the windows, looking out at the garden where I'd spent so many weekends planting roses. "Traditional wife training."

"Training?" Her voice wavered slightly.

"You want to be a Dalton woman, don't you?" I turned back to her, letting a small smile play at my lips. "Mark's mother?"

"Yes! I mean—" She caught herself, blushing. "I want to make Mark happy."

"Then you'll need to learn proper household management." I moved to the hall closet, pulling out the cleaning supplies. "The marble floors in this house need special care."

Tiffany's eyes widened as I placed a scrub brush and bucket at her feet.

"Hands and knees," I instructed, my voice firm as steel. "That's how a proper wife shows her devotion."

"But—" She looked at the brush like it might bite her. "I've never—"

"A Dalton woman excels at everything she puts her mind to." I handed her a pair of yellow rubber gloves. "Including keeping her home immaculate."

For a moment, I thought she might refuse. Her lower lip trembled, and I could see the conflict in her eyes—the choice between pride and ambition.

Then she took the gloves.

"Good girl," I said, patting her head like a dog. "Begin with the entryway."

I watched as Tiffany knelt on my Italian marble floor, her designer dress riding up as she awkwardly positioned herself. The scrub brush looked enormous in her manicured hands.

"This will take hours," she murmured, already sounding defeated.

"That's the point." I moved toward the stairs. "I'll be checking your progress."

Once upstairs, I moved with purpose. Mark's study was my first target—the one room he kept locked when I was home. Now, with Tiffany occupied downstairs, I used the spare key I'd hidden in my jewelry box years ago.

The room smelled of him—expensive cologne and leather-bound books he never read. I went straight to his desk, methodically opening drawers until I found what I was looking for: a folder marked "Personal."

Inside were credit card statements—not our joint account, but one I'd never seen before. An American Express Black Card in his name only.

"Interesting," I murmured, flipping through the pages.

Dinner at Le Bernardin. A weekend at the Four Seasons. A charge from Tiffany's favorite jeweler downtown.

I took photos of everything with my phone, my hands steady despite the rage building inside me.

"What else are you hiding, Mark?"

I moved to his computer next, but it was password protected. Of course it was. I'd have to find another way.

Downstairs, I could hear Tiffany scrubbing away, her movements growing more labored by the minute.

"Mrs. Dalton?" she called out. "The entryway is done. What should I do next?"

"Check the bathroom," I replied, my voice carrying down the stairs. "A Dalton woman's domain is spotless."

I slipped into our bedroom—my bedroom—and went straight to the nightstand where Mark kept his personal items. Nothing there except some reading glasses and a book he'd been pretending to read for months.

Then I noticed Tiffany's purse on the chaise lounge.

She'd left her phone unguarded.

I moved quickly, snatching it up before she could appear in the doorway. The phone was unlocked—of course it was. Tiffany probably didn't have anything worth hiding.

But she did have photos.

Intimate photos of her and Mark. In our bed. On our yacht. At his office after hours.

"Perfect," I whispered, quickly transferring the images to my own phone.

There were text messages too—screenshots she'd saved of Mark's promises to her.

"I'll leave her soon, baby. You're the one I want."

"My mother will love you once she gets to know you."

"Eleanor's career is more important than our marriage."

I copied them all, my fingers moving with surgical precision.

"Eleanor who?" I whispered to the empty room.

Downstairs, I could hear Tiffany moving to the bathroom, her scrubbing more vigorous now, probably hoping to impress me.

"Mrs. Dalton!" she called out. "I'm working on the guest bathroom now!"

"Excellent," I replied, slipping her phone back into her purse exactly as I'd found it. "But we need to discuss proper devotion to the Dalton family."

I found her on her knees in the master bathroom, scrubbing at the tile around my clawfoot tub.

"Tiffany," I said, my voice echoing in the marble space. "A Dalton woman understands that true devotion goes beyond surface appearances."

She looked up at me, her hair falling in damp strands around her face. "I don't understand."

"The toilets," I said, pointing to the master bathroom's separate water closet. "They require special attention."

Her face fell. "The toilets?"

"Yes." I moved closer, watching as she struggled to her feet. "Cleanliness is next to godliness, as they say."

"But—" She glanced at the toilet, then back at me. "Isn't that... beneath me?"

"Nothing is beneath a Dalton woman who wants to prove her worth." I handed her a fresh cloth and a bottle of disinfectant. "Unless you're not serious about joining our family."

Tiffany took the supplies with trembling hands.

"I'll be checking your work," I said, turning to leave. "And remember—a Dalton woman's devotion is complete."

As I closed the door behind me, I could hear her small sigh of defeat.

In Mark's study again, I went through his desk drawers more thoroughly this time. In the bottom drawer, hidden beneath some financial reports, I found a small box.

Inside were love letters—actual handwritten notes from Tiffany to Mark, and his responses. Sweet nothings and promises, all documented in their own words.

And better yet—printed screenshots of text messages between them, saved and dated.

A complete timeline of their affair.

"Gotcha," I whispered, carefully photographing each page.

I was so absorbed in my discovery that I almost missed the sound of a key in the front door downstairs.

Mark was home early.

And Tiffany was still on her knees in my bathroom, scrubbing toilets like the mistress she was.

I quickly returned the box to its hiding place and moved to the top of the stairs, a plan already forming in my mind.

"Mother?" Mark's voice echoed through the foyer. "Are you home early from the Hamptons?"

I smiled to myself, thinking of the surprise that awaited him.

"Yes, dear," I called down, my voice perfectly matching Victoria's imperious tone. "And I've brought a special gift for you."