At exactly 3:07 a.m., my phone vibrated across the marble nightstand.
Not loud enough to wake the entire mansion in Beverly Hills. Just enough to wake a woman who had spent seven years learning how to sleep beside a man who lied beautifully.
I opened my eyes slowly, reaching for the glowing screen in the dark.
One photo.
Sent from an unknown number.
But I didn’t need the contact saved to know exactly who it was.
Vanessa Carter.
My husband’s executive assistant.
The same woman Ethan Whitmore had introduced at a gala in Los Angeles as “the most loyal employee in the company.” The woman who laughed too softly at his jokes. Who stood too close during meetings. Who looked at me with the polite smile of someone already imagining herself living in my house.
I tapped the image open.
There she was.
Vanessa stretched across a luxury hotel bed inside a penthouse suite at the The Peninsula Beverly Hills, wrapped in Ethan’s white designer dress shirt like she had already won.
Champagne sat chilling beside the bed.
Silk sheets tangled behind her.
Warm gold lights reflected against marble walls.
Everything about the picture had been carefully staged to hurt me.
And behind her, half asleep on the bed, was my husband.
Ethan Whitmore.
