Reborn to Destroy My Husband's Crying Mistress novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: The Latte
Reborn in the lobby on the morning it began, Natalie steps aside when Annie falls, makes the guard read the swipe log, and hears her husband say the mistress's first name months before he swore he knew her.
At 8:52 on a rainy Monday, Annie Presnell crossed the lobby of Bancroft & Kingscote with a full latte in her hand.
I knew where she would fall, because I had stood in that exact spot before.
The last thing I remembered was a prison infirmary cot and a ceiling light that buzzed.
The next thing I remembered was this lobby, wet umbrellas and burnt espresso, and my own hand on the strap of my bag.
In my first life, Annie tripped over nothing and the coffee went down my white silk blouse.
This time I took one step to the left.
The latte hit the marble and spread across the floor to the guard's desk.
Forty people were crossing the lobby. Half of them stopped.
Annie looked at the puddle, then up at me, and her brown eyes filled right on time.
She was twenty-four, a junior assistant on the third floor, eleven weeks on the payroll. Her blazer was two sizes too big.
"Mrs. Bancroft, I'm so sorry." Her voice cracked on my name. "I have the vendor files for the board at nine, and I left my badge at home."
"Is that right?" I said.
"If I'm late, they'll let me go. My mom's rent is due Friday." A tear slid down. "Could you please swipe me up in your elevator?"
Last time I said yes before she finished.
I gave her my own badge. I lent her my spare coat. I taught her which floors had the good coffee and which VPs to avoid.
Three months later she sat on a witness stand, crying, and a jury gave me eight years.
I looked at the crowd watching us, and then at the guard behind his desk.
"Could you pull the garage log?" I asked him. "Ms. Presnell's badge, the last half hour."
The guard blinked at me. Then he tapped at his keyboard.
Annie's face stayed wet, but her eyes changed. For one flat second they stopped pleading and started counting.
"Presnell, Anneliese," the guard read. "Garage level two, 8:41."
Somebody in the crowd made a small sound.
"Then it's in her bag," I said. "Which is fine. Everybody forgets where they put things."
"My roommate must have used it," Annie said. Her breath hitched. "She borrows my stuff."
"Then your roommate is parked on level two. Call her and ask her to bring it up."
"I can't. She's at work."
"In the garage on level two."
Annie's mouth opened and closed. She looked around for someone to rescue her, and for the first time in two lives nobody moved.
I did not swipe her up. I did not give her my coat.
So I let her stand there in her wet shoes.
"Natalie!"
Jocelyn Sayer came through the revolving door, shaking rain off her cream blazer, and my chest tightened at the sight of her.
She was my best friend since college. She was the firm's general counsel and Junie's godmother.
She had sat behind me every single day of my trial.
"Don't eat the poor girl alive," Jocelyn said, laughing, and squeezed my arm. "She's twenty-four. We've all been late."
She reached into her blazer pocket and pulled out a visitor pass.
"I keep spares. Here, sweetheart. Third floor, you're fine."
The pass was already printed. J. PRESNELL, GUEST, 3RD FLOOR.
I noticed that. Jocelyn thought ahead for everyone, always had, and it did not seem worth stopping on.
Annie took the pass in both hands and whispered thank you. Jocelyn put an arm around her shoulders and walked her to the stairs.
The crowd drifted off. A man in the line at the desk muttered something about the log.
My phone buzzed with a text from the nursery school. Junie had thrown her shoes at a boy and was asking for me.
My daughter was five years old and alive.
I had not seen her face in a long time. I held the phone to my chest.
Then the revolving door turned again, and Desmond walked in, shaking out his umbrella.
My husband. Thirty-eight years old, CEO of my father's company, beloved by every receptionist on every floor.
He took in the puddle, the guard, the quiet, and Annie's wet face halfway up the stairs.
"Annie," he said, and his voice dropped warm and worried. "Are you all right? What happened?"
He knew her first name.
At my trial, under oath, with his hand on a Bible, Desmond swore he had never spoken to Annie Presnell before the following March.
It was October.
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