Chapter 89: The Interview
Ivy emailed Clara Wren at 11:06 a.m. and called it protection because betrayal sounded ugly when typed plainly.
The subject line was simple enough to survive forwarding: What Julian Made Me Do.
Clara replied seven minutes later, not warmly, not greedily, and not like a woman mistaking panic for truth.
If you are making allegations, bring documents.
That was the first disappointment.
Ivy had expected interest, outrage, perhaps one of those careful phrases journalists used before turning another woman’s ruin into a feature.
Instead, Clara asked for proof, because Serena had infected the entire city with documents.
At one o’clock, Ivy sat in a quiet hotel lounge behind a screen of plants, wearing black because white had betrayed her.
No jewellery. No silk. No borrowed pearls. Just a coat, sunglasses, and a handbag that held more fear than money.
Clara arrived with a recorder, a laptop, and a legal adviser Ivy had not expected.
That unsettled her. People used to arrive alone when Ivy promised secrets. Now they arrived prepared.
You said Julian misled you, Clara began.
He did, Ivy said quickly.
About what, Clara asked. Everything.
Clara waited, because everything was not evidence, and Ivy hated her for knowing it.
He told me Serena was finished, Ivy said. He told me the house would be mine, the divorce simple, the money his, the baby useful.
Clara’s pen moved only once. The baby would be useful?
Ivy’s hand went to her stomach. The legal adviser looked up. Ivy removed her hand.
I mean emotionally, she said. He said Serena would have to accept reality.
Which reality? Clara asked.
The one where he chose me.
The sentence sounded smaller outside Ivy’s head, almost embarrassing when placed on a table beside coffee and legal caution.
Clara did not smile. Do you have messages confirming financial support, expenditure approval, or instructions relating to Mrs Whitmore?
Ivy opened her phone.
For twenty minutes, she fed the table pieces of Julian: messages promising authority, voice notes complaining about Serena, approvals for flights and styling bills.
There were jewellery requests, dress negotiations, references to household classifications, and one message telling her Gerald would be dealt with.
Not the worst things, not yet. Only enough to see Clara lean closer.
Then Ivy played the message Julian had sent after the slap.
Do not worry about Serena. She needs to learn where she stands.
Clara stopped typing.
Play that again.
Ivy did, and the second time, the sentence sounded worse because everyone knew where Serena now stood.
At the microphone. At the centre. Above the roots Julian had not believed existed.
What do you want from this? Clara asked.
Ivy’s mouth opened. Money, she nearly said. Protection, she said instead.
From prosecution? From public attention? From Julian?
All of it.
The legal adviser closed his notebook halfway. We cannot promise protection.
Then why am I here?
Because truth has value, Clara said, and lies have consequences.
Ivy laughed once, thinly. Everyone wants truth now that Serena owns it.
Clara asked about the dress, the car, the necklace, the pregnancy announcement, the house, the slap.
The slap made Ivy look away, and that was the first thing she did not try to decorate.
Did you strike Serena Whitmore? Clara asked.
Ivy stared at the recorder. Julian laughed, she said.
That is not an answer.
No, Ivy replied. It is the part people will remember.
By four o’clock, Clara had enough to write, not enough to forgive, and Ivy left the lounge feeling lighter for the first time since the exchange hall.
Then Clara’s legal adviser stayed behind and asked the hotel to preserve the lounge footage.
By evening, the headline draft reached Serena’s team: Inside Julian Ashford’s Household of Lies.
Martin read it aloud. Serena looked at Ivy’s name in the subheading and said nothing.
The dog had bitten, finally, but it had bitten with a mouth full of receipts.