At precisely 3:07 a.m., my phone vibrated on the marble nightstand.
Not loud enough to wake up the entire Beverly Hills mansion. Just loud enough to wake a woman who had spent seven years learning to sleep with a man who was a master liar.
I slowly opened my eyes, reaching my hand towards the bright screen in the darkness.
A photo.
Sent from an unknown number.
But I didn’t need to save the contact to know exactly who it was.
Vanessa Carter.
My husband’s executive assistant.
This same woman whom Ethan Whitmore had introduced at a gala in Los Angeles as “the company’s most loyal employee.” The one who laughed too quietly at his jokes. The one who stood too close during meetings. The one who looked at me with the polite smile of someone who already imagined living in my house.
I opened the image by pressing on it.
Here it is.
Vanessa lay on a luxury hotel bed in a penthouse suite at the Peninsula Beverly Hills, wrapped in Ethan’s white designer shirt, as if she had already won.
The champagne was placed chilled next to the bed.
Tangled silk sheets lay behind her.
Warm, golden lights were reflected off the marble walls.
Everything in that photo had been carefully staged to hurt me.
And behind her, half asleep on the bed, was my husband.
CONTINUE READING…>>
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