On our tenth wedding anniversary, I saw an automatically synced email receipt on Garrett's iPad.

It didn't belong to me.

It was from a high-end bespoke gallery in Chicago, commissioned for a two-person portrait.

I called my husband, Garrett Sterling.

"Have you commissioned any art recently?"

There was a brief silence on the other end, then he chuckled, his voice effortlessly smooth, betraying nothing. "Oh, that. I was commissioning a gift for my business partner, Brooke. A housewarming present, he explained, for her new estate in the Hamptons."

Brooke was a fiercely private woman. She would never commission a portrait for public display.

More importantly, the sketch attached to the receipt showed a woman with waist-length hair. My hair has always been a chic, short bob.

I ended the call without another word.

Then, I headed straight for the address in the email.

Through the floor-to-ceiling window, I saw a young woman with waist-length hair holding Garrett's arm, her body pressed intimately against his. He’d complained countless times that my short hair wasn't feminine enough—that I was all business, no soul.

Apparently, the long-haired woman was his type.

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1

As the woman drifted toward a showroom, I fell into step behind her.

I steadied my breath and approached her, affecting the air of a potential client.

It was her.

Our eyes met in the reflection of a framed painting. I saw a flash of smug triumph in her eyes before her posture straightened almost instinctively.

Just as she was about to turn away, I stopped her with a smile. "You have such incredible taste. Do you work here?"

Her body tensed for a split second before she visibly relaxed, her voice laced with a smug little boast. "No, my boyfriend planned a surprise for our anniversary. He booked the entire showroom just for me."

A bitter laugh caught in my throat. One simple question and she was already this brazen. Who gave her the audacity to play the socialite on my dime?

I glanced at her ensemble—a Chanel suit from the latest collection, paired with ill-fitting heels. I asked nonchalantly, "No need to be nervous. I just think you have a real artist's eye. Could you give me some recommendations?"

The smugness on her face deepened. She lifted her chin slightly. "He picked this out for me. He said my gentle temperament is perfect for these kinds of things."

She paused, her gaze sweeping over my tailored business suit. "Your style is a little severe. A piece like this wouldn't suit you; it would just clash."

Excellent.

Even while playing the sweet, innocent ingénue, she couldn’t resist taking a jab at me, all while flaunting her youth and supposed artistic flair. Still trying to be provocative.

But her petty digs didn't faze me.

I extended a hand, pointing to the conspicuous leather-strap watch on her wrist.

"How long have you had this watch?"

Her reaction was immediate—a sharp recoil as she instinctively yanked her cuff over the timepiece.

"About… three years. It’s a vintage piece, very hard to find."

Her answer landed like a punch to the gut.

Three years ago marked the turning point in my career. My boutique coffee brand, Aura Coffee, had just broken into the North American market. I was constantly flying between the coffee-growing regions of South America and our headquarters in Chicago.

My life back then felt like an endless string of business trips.

But whenever we managed to be in the same city, my husband, Garrett, would meticulously plan romantic dates for us, leaving me feeling both cherished and guilty.

I once asked him if he resented me for prioritizing my career.

He had replied, his voice thick with affection, "You go build your empire, Camila. I'll always be right here, cheering you on. Your success is my greatest pride."

I knew the immense difficulty of balancing a career and a family, and I’d always carried a weight of guilt, even considering dipping into my family trust to help his company through a cash-flow crunch.

In that moment, however, I finally understood. All my guilt had been a joke. He hadn't sacrificed a thing. He'd simply found his own entertainment while I was busy building my "empire."

I took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of my nose to mask the wave of revulsion that washed over me.

I looked at the watch on her wrist with an expression of feigned surprise.

A humorless laugh escaped my lips. "You have a sharp eye. That's a limited-edition Patek Philippe from the 1930s, isn't it? It's practically a ghost on the auction market."

I knew that watch intimately. It was a coming-of-age gift from my father, one of the brand’s few vintage masterpieces, with my initials—C.M.—engraved on the case back.

It was also the lucky charm I wore when I won the World Barista Championship.

It had vanished when we moved into our Gold Coast apartment, and I had been heartbroken for months over its loss.

Back then, Garrett had comforted me, suggesting the movers might have had sticky fingers, and besides, the watch didn't really suit my style anymore. He told me not to be sad, that he would buy me a new one.

I had even been angry with him for not understanding its sentimental value.

Looking back, it was laughable. The whole thing was a ruse—he’d stolen it himself, then played the part of the consoling husband.

Sienna clearly didn’t grasp the watch's true significance; to her, it was just an expensive trophy. Her gaze darted away, her lips trembling as she struggled to form a response.

Just then, a crisp voice from a gallery staff member cut through the quiet.

"Miss Cruz, Mr. Sterling is waiting for you in the VIP lounge to sign the papers."

As if she’d been pardoned, she muttered a hasty goodbye and all but fled.

Watching her hurried retreat, I smirked. I nonchalantly adjusted my cuffs and exited the gallery.

My next call was to my brother, Julian Montgomery.

Julian was the CEO of Montgomery Enterprises and the primary investor in Garrett's company.

I kept my voice steady. "Julian, have Legal draw up the paperwork to freeze all payments to Garrett's company. And get me the best divorce attorney you can find. Yes, he cheated. He's bankrolling some art student with my money and he stole the watch Dad gave me."

That night, Julian's cybersecurity team sent me an encrypted link.

It gave me access to Garrett’s private cloud server, where I saw the full extent of his betrayal.

The scale of his deceit was staggering.

On October tenth of last year, I was in Colombia for a green bean acquisition. We had planned to watch the city lights of Bogotá from the peak of Monserrate.

Garrett suddenly claimed his flight was canceled. I waited for him at the mountaintop restaurant until it closed, only to return to my hotel and collapse with a fever that raged for three days.

It turned out he was in New York City with Sienna, attending a luxury brand’s exclusive "Lover's Workshop" event.

On November fourth, one of my flagship stores burned down. The stress of it all triggered a miscarriage.

I broke down sobbing in the hospital emergency room, calling Garrett again and again, but every call went straight to voicemail.

It turned out he was at a lavish ski resort in Aspen with Sienna.

On November sixth, just after the miscarriage, I was recovering at home, a complete wreck. He gave me a custom Spotify playlist, claiming he’d spent days curating songs to help me relax.

We had a candlelight dinner that he cooked himself, the melodies playing softly in the background.

Only now did I realize the playlist was a direct rip-off of one Sienna had posted on Instagram a week earlier.

That entire meticulously planned date, from the music to the menu, even the choice of red wine, was nothing but a recreation of his date with her from the day before.

The next day, he left on a supposed business trip to Seattle. In reality, he was taking Sienna to a yacht party.

In the party photos, everyone was beaming. Most of them were our mutual friends, some of whom had even sat at the head table at our wedding.

There they were, raising champagne flutes with my husband and his mistress, having the time of their lives. My "good friends."

With every photo I scrolled past, a new layer of ice formed around my heart.

Just as I was about to close the browser, an encrypted PDF file caught my eye.

My breath hitched. A cold dread washed over me. With a trembling finger, I clicked it open.

It was an ingredient analysis report. The photo on the bottle was a perfect match for the "health supplements" I'd been taking daily—ones Garrett claimed he'd had a specialist formulate just for me.

At the bottom of the report, a warning was printed in bold red letters.

[The active compounds in this medication are known to have significant contraindications for early-stage pregnancy. Prolonged use carries a high risk of miscarriage, permanent infertility, and uterine damage.]

Scrolling further, I found a screenshot of a post from Sienna's private Instagram.

She was showing off the same bottle of pills. The caption read:

[He said that career-obsessed woman doesn't deserve to have his child. He only wants a family with me.]

Someone had commented, teasing her:

[What if she gets pregnant?]

Sienna’s reply:

[Don't worry, Garrett has ways to make sure she can’t get pregnant, or… can’t keep it.]

My ears were ringing. My miscarriage... it hadn't been an accident.

Under the guise of improving my health, Garrett had been swapping my prenatal vitamins with a slow-acting abortifacient.

The cruelest irony was that the reason I hadn't been able to conceive again wasn't, as my doctor had gently suggested, because my body needed more time to heal.

It was because this drug was never meant to be taken for more than three months. I had been on it for a full six.

How was this not murder?

A laugh, sharp and broken, escaped me, even as tears streamed down my face. All the little details I had willfully ignored now crashed over me like a tidal wave.

The faint, unfamiliar perfume clinging to his suits, the hushed late-night calls on the balcony, the glass of water and "supplements" he had handed me so tenderly the night before my miscarriage.

I had been the biggest fool. The grief was so immense, the realization so sharp, that the hatred itself felt numb, almost distant.

I wiped away my tears, my hand forceful. I looked at the woman in the mirror, and her gaze hardened with resolve.

I would make that shameless pair pay for everything.

Just as my thoughts began to race, a message notification lit up my screen.

I took a deep breath and opened it.

It was from my business rival, Veronica Blackwood. We’d been at each other’s throats since high school.

"Well, look who it is. Still alive. I thought you’d suffocated in a pile of your own coffee beans. Your husband is about to propose to his ‘new fiancée’ at the Innovative Entrepreneur awards gala tonight. The grand finale, I hear."

As my long-time rival, I knew she was messaging me to gloat, but there was an undercurrent of something else in her taunt.

I ignored her sarcasm and replied with a single word, "Address."

She scoffed. "So you're not a complete idiot after all. I'll be waiting for the show."

An address came through instantly—The Grand Ballroom at the Peninsula Hotel.

I glanced at the location. It was only an hour's drive away. The sheer audacity, to do this so brazenly, so close to home.

A cold laugh escaped me. His new fiancée?

The nerve of him. How could his legal wife possibly miss an event this exciting?

I drove to the address immediately. The moment I got in the car, a message from Garrett popped up.

[Honey, you're not home? I was trying to check on the cat through the living room camera but didn't see you. I'm preparing my speech for tonight and feeling a bit nervous.]

All his recent concern, his constant worrying about my health and state of mind... it was all a front. He was terrified I’d blow up his little scheme or find out he was moving assets.

I replied with a photo, a cold smile on my face.

[Ida's here. We're having coffee downstairs.]

Less than a second later, Garrett replied.

[You'd better stick to juice. The doctor said caffeine isn't good for you right now.]

He even attached a photo of himself at some networking event. What a consummate actor. The Academy owed him an Oscar.

For years, he had meticulously reported his whereabouts to me, cultivating the image of a devoted husband. I never once doubted him.

The Peninsula Hotel is a Chicago landmark. An event this high-profile demanded an ironclad security system. But I held a Montgomery black card, and the hotel's general manager had a long-standing debt to my father.

Through the crystal-clear surveillance feed in the security control room, I watched Garrett guide Sienna through the throng of guests.

His arm was wrapped possessively around her waist as they toasted with the other attendees.

Sienna wore a long Oscar de la Renta gown, its silver-white fabric shimmering under the spotlights.

I recognized that gown.

Garrett had shown me a picture of it last month, murmuring, "This would look perfect on you."

And yet, here it was, on another woman.

They were chatting with several influential guests. I recognized one, Grant Wallace, an investor Garrett and I had courted together.

Sienna nodded and smiled, playing the role of the demure, supportive partner to perfection. Garrett gazed at her with undisguised adoration.

They looked for all the world like the blissful couple on the verge of their happily ever after.

Just then, Sienna touched her stomach and whispered something to Garrett. He immediately bent down, listening intently, before a wide, ecstatic grin split his face, as if he’d just heard the greatest news of his life.

He tenderly tucked a stray strand of her hair behind her ear. The people around them laughed and raised their glasses in congratulations.

Grant patted Garrett’s shoulder, looking overjoyed.

Watching the scene unfold, I was suddenly reminded of what my family doctor, Dr. Evans, had told me a month ago: "Camila, don't lose hope. You will have a child eventually."

At the time, Garrett had held my hand, comforting me gently.

"Don't worry, we have our whole lives ahead of us. Even without children, having you is more than enough for me."

And now, here he was, about to become a father—and the mother wasn't me.

On the live feed, the crowd gathered as the host kicked off the event. Garrett was invited on stage to share his journey as an entrepreneur who had triumphed over adversity.

Then, he actually brought Sienna on stage. He waxed poetic about how they met—conveniently omitting the real timeline—describing how she had been his rock through countless late nights as he wrestled with his projects.

"She is my sun, the source of all my energy."

The crowd erupted in fervent applause, celebrating their beautiful love story. It seemed they had all chosen a collective amnesia—conveniently forgetting that Garrett was a married man, and that his wife had, at some point, helped nearly every person in that room.

How utterly ridiculous.

Listening from the security room, I had to admit, his saccharine performance was almost convincing.