High Class Hustle
1162 Words
It was a warm summer morning. Gosh! The thrill of sipping iced coffee on a day like this while watching your husband’s mistress hand over a fat check while pretending she doesn’t know that you know she’s been sleeping with your him.
Now that, darling, is real power.
The higher I climbed, the more polished the mistresses became.
Gone were the days of desperate i********: models, influencers and department store makeup girls with chipped nails and cheap perfume.
Guys, these new women, they wore Chanel like it was nothing. They smelled like Tom Ford’s private collection while their lips probably cost more than my first car.
And yet, somehow, they still fell for Charles Stark.
That charming man with a billionaire smile and no sense of loyalty.
So I had to level up from the small settlement offers I used to give, thirty thousand here, fifteen there just weren’t enough anymore.
These women weren’t cheap.
But they were scared and very terrified of the scandal.
Charles had specialty in the type of women he sleeps with now, who had just as much to lose as he did.
They go from heiresses, silent partners in luxury brands and daughters of politicians.
This kind of women had everything in life, but they risked it all for a few nights with him.
So I played the part too.
I got myself silk blouses, pearl accessories, while I held a calm, sharp stare that told them I wasn’t someone to mess with.
The first high-profile handoff happened at The Elysian Club.
You can’t even get close to the lobby without a special key card.
I wore my black velvet suit and applied my red lipstick. That was my signature look.
She was already there, sitting alone in a corner booth. Her name was Layla Godfrey.
Her father owned a huge chunk of Manhattan’s luxury buildings. And she’d been having an affair with Charles for six months.
I slid into the seat across from her.
She fidgeted with her espresso cup, clearly nervous.
“Layla,” I said smoothly. “You look... anxious.”
“I don’t want any drama,” she replied, her voice shaking just a little.
I smiled and placed a manila envelope on the table between us.
“No drama. Just the facts that you sign, you pay, and I forget your face. Everybody walks away happy.”
Her hands trembled slightly as she opened the envelope.
Her eyes scanned the first page, then the second.
Then she looked up, in shock.
“Three million dollars?” she whispered.
“Don’t be dramatic girl,” I said with a soft smile. “Your Cartier ring is worth half of that. This isn’t about the money. It’s about protecting your name.
You know how people talk in New York. They’ll tear you apart faster than stale croissants.”
She didn’t argue.
An hour later, her lawyer sent the money.
That was the start of my second empire, what I liked to call the elite settlement circle.
By then, my savings had turned into something much more bigger, like a financial jungle.
I hired a quiet lawyer, and got myself an investment advisor. I bought three LLCs, two secret companies, and even invested in a luxury handbag resale business.
My money was growing faster just as rumors began to spread like wildfire. At galas, even at ladies’ luncheons, and bars.
“Someone’s blackmailing the mistresses...”
“Collecting private settlements... not a single leak exposed. Very professional.”
“I think it’s a detective? Maybe a journalist?”
Every time I heard those rumors, I sipped my wine and smiled quietly.
By the seventh chapter of my secret life, I had collected over seventeen million dollars. All tax-free.
None of the women ever apologized, not even one.
They cried, shouted and even called me names like witch, snake, bitter wife.
But no one ever said sorry. But I didn’t care. I didn’t need their apologies anyway, I just needed their money.
I was sitting in my home office, which I jokingly called my money dungeon, when the next call came in.
A soft voice spoke from the other end.
“Is this... V?” she asked, like she was calling a secret agent.
I rolled my eyes. They always made it sound like some dramatic movie.
“Speaking,” I said calmly.
“I... I heard you take care of things. Quietly,” she said.
Her name was Donatella Rowe. Just like the designer. Her father ran a global shipping company. She was married, but she had also been sleeping with Charles for five months.
“I want to handle this before it becomes a problem,” she said.
I smiled. “No problem. Meet me at the Mondrian rooftop tomorrow with your lawyer. And a pen.”
The next day, she arrived wearing Balmain from head to toe.
And a whole lot of guilty expressions.
I didn’t even blink when I told her the amount.
“Ten million,” I said.
She stared at me. “That’s crazy.”
I leaned in. “You’re worth sixty million on your own. This is nothing. And believe me, people would love to know how you spent your honeymoon in Paris... with my husband.”
She didn’t say another word.
She signed the papers. Transferred the money, and quickly walked away.
I had officially reached the kind of wealth where mistresses start paying millions. It felt like I had made it into the Forbes list of quiet power.
Charles still had no idea. He thought I was redecorating our penthouse to deal with my emotional breakdown. If only he knew the truth. I was secretly building a beauty brand, co-owning two art galleries in Chelsea, and helping fund a hedge fund run by women.
But things didn’t always go smoothly.
One of the mistresses, Bianca Green, used to be a pop star. Now she called herself a crypto influencer. She refused to pay.
“You can’t prove anything,” she snapped on the phone. “Try me. My lawyers will eat you alive.”
I smiled.
“I wasn’t even going to mention that little video from the yacht in Cabo last July. But since you brought up lawyers...”
The next day, she wired three million dollars.
Each woman I dealt with became another brick in the empire I was building. And as the walls of my new life rose higher, so did my confidence, because now, I walk with confidence and speak with pride.
But I can still not forget how it all started. How I usually stay all night, crying myself to sleep while Charles claimed he was working late.
Well, now I work late.
Bought myself diamonds, flew to Milan for what I called market research. I also bought my mother a house and paid off my sister’s student loans. And I did it all without touching a single dollar from Charles accounts.
- Writer
