I was always flying for work, so I left the whole renovation thing to my husband, Daxton Pruitt.

This time, my flight got scrapped last minute, so I swung by the house to check in.

The second I stepped inside, some woman named Mona Scambley, who claimed she was the designer, chucked a stack of invoices at me.

Couples' lingerie display case: $15,000.

High-end waterbed: $40,000.

One glance at that pile of overpriced tacky nonsense made me nauseous. My brows pulled tight.

"Ms. Scambley, this is a private house, not some couples' motel. What is all this?"

Her face flipped in a heartbeat. She jabbed a finger at me. "The owner gave those orders. You're just the site supervisor. Disobey me again, and I'll have Mr. Pruitt fire you!"

Then she spun around and called Daxton right there.

I laughed, cold and low, about to ask what kind of clown show designer he'd hired—until I heard his voice.

Gentle. Doting.

"This is Mona and my love nest. We'll do whatever we want. Don't like it? Get out."

I smiled, snatched the list from Mona, and nodded. "Sure."

One week later, that overpriced waterbed showed up—Daxton, very much not smiling.

Faye's POV

Daxton Pruitt was still sweet-talking on the other end. "Come on, baby, don't be mad. She's just a site supervisor. I'll replace her soon. My wife already gave me $1.3 mil for the reno—get whatever you want. If it's not enough, I'll handle it."

That "baby" was sugar-coated poison.

I froze.

Then it clicked.

Two months back, Daxton claimed he was off on some work retreat for three days.

When he got home, his phone wallpaper had switched to a beachy sunset.

I said it looked cool. He dodged my eyes and muttered something about finding it online.

But now? The shell bracelet from that photo was wrapped around Mona Scambley's wrist.

Last month, when I got back from a trip, Daxton picked me up at the airport. I caught a sweet scent on him—something unfamiliar.

He brushed it off, said it must've rubbed off from a client.

I'd actually felt touched. Thought he was squeezing me in after a meeting. Thought he was loyal.

But now, that same scent was all over Mona.

It wasn't a client. It was her.

"Hey! You gonna stand there all day?"

Mona had hung up and stomped over, slapping the invoice back in my face.

"A site supervisor should act like one. Tell the crew to finish the waterbed wiring by this afternoon. And this list? Buy everything on it today. If anything's late, you're eating the cost."

I looked down, gripping the list.

Every item screamed couple goals.

Each one hit like a slap.

A reminder they were using my money to build their dream.

I didn't move fast enough, so Mona shoved me. "What's your problem? Never seen real luxury before?"

Then she sneered.

"Whatever. That cheap uniform says it all—clearly no guy's ever spoiled you. You wouldn't get how good this life feels. Just remember, Mr. Pruitt approved everything. If you're not gonna play nice, leave."

I looked down at my uniform—then laughed.

Back when Daxton was chasing me, he didn't let up. Swore he'd cut off his ex—the one who ditched him for some rich guy and vanished overseas.

After that, anytime I got sick, he'd show up with meds, waiting outside my door.

He brought breakfast every morning. Ran with me every night. Never missed once.

I fell for it. After graduation, I landed a job with a top international construction firm. Traveled nonstop, trying to rack up enough cash to give him a better life.

Turns out, I was just paving the way for him to crawl back to his ex.

This uniform—one I wore through airports, sun, and storms for him—was now the reason she thought I was a nobody.

What a freaking joke.

I swallowed hard and looked up, forcing a smile. "You're right. I'm just the site supervisor. Whatever the client and you need—I'll handle it."

"Smart girl." Mona snorted, strutting off.

Her heels clacked hard against the concrete.

"Move it! Anyone slows me down, Daxton'll fire the whole lot of you!"

If you catch your husband cheating before kids come into the picture, count yourself lucky.

No baggage. Just dump the loser and go.

To lock down proof of Daxton's affair and make the divorce airtight, I moved into the half-finished house. Slept right there, surrounded by dust and concrete.

Meanwhile, Daxton kept calling, voice dripping with fake warmth:

"Babe, still working hard? Don't forget to take care of yourself, okay? I worry about you."

"What time is it in your city? Dark there yet? It's still light here."

"When you coming back, babe? I miss you so much."

Every word made me wanna puke up last night's leftovers.

While he played the doting husband, Mona—drunk on power—strolled into the house with a posse of glammed-up girls.

"Check it out! This is gonna be me and Daxton's future home!"

Wiring covered the floor, tools everywhere—but that didn't stop them. They strutted through in stilettos, chatting like they owned the place.

"Mona, you're killing it. Daxton's totally obsessed with you."

"His wife's never around. Serves her right, getting swapped out. You guys've been together what, two years?"

"If she knew he was picturing you on their wedding day, she'd probably drop dead."

Mona curled her lip, full sneer. "That old hag? She's just some grunt worker. No clue how to treat a man. No taste, dresses like a farmhand, and looks rough."

I crouched in the corner, recording every word.

Mona kept going. "She actually wanted to stick some ugly industrial metal lights in here. Who does that? Chunks of iron on the wall?"

She pointed at the chandelier now hanging in the center of the room, smug as ever.

"Good thing I swapped it for this beauty. Who knows how she would've trashed the place. Oh—and this chandelier? A hundred grand."

I couldn't help but laugh.

I'd spent six, maybe seven years saving up to buy this place in full. Paid for every inch of the reno myself.

Daxton barely owned a sliver—Mona owned nothing. And now the side chick was out here bragging like the deed had her name on it? Wild.

"Whoa, $100,000? I've never even seen a hundred-grand light before."

"Mona, turn it on! We wanna see the sparkle!"

"Yeah, flip the switch!"

The head electrician rushed over, looking panicked. "No can do. It's on a temp line. Totally unstable—turning it on now's asking for trouble."

Mona's smile dropped. She snapped, "It cost a hundred grand. What danger? I'm the lead designer. I said turn it on!"

Then she spun and yanked me over like a rag doll.

Shoved me right under the chandelier.

"You! Stand right there," she sneered, smile dripping venom. "Didn't wanna follow orders? Thought you could mouth off? Since you're the supervisor, go on—stand there and tell me which angle the lighting looks best from."

She shoved me again. I stumbled, staring straight up at the chandelier.

Dozens of pounds of crystal swayed above me, barely hanging on. The wires sparked—tiny, sharp zzzts slicing the air.

The workers paled.

"This isn't safe, Ms. Scambley! Someone could get seriously hurt!"

"Don't be dramatic! I picked that chandelier myself—there's nothing wrong with it! Turn it on. My friends want to see it shine. If something happens, I'll take full responsibility!"

The electrician—clearly ticked but stuck—froze. His paycheck came from her.

Before he could move, Mona's friends shoved past and yanked the breaker.

The second the switch flipped, I grabbed Mona's wrist and dragged her under the chandelier with me.

"Ms. Scambley, a light this gorgeous? We HAVE to enjoy it together."

Zzzzzaaap—

Sparks cracked. The overhead lights stuttered, the room flashing between bright and blackout.

Clang!

One of the steel cables snapped with a sharp pop.

The chandelier tilted hard. Crystals burst midair, raining down like glass hail.

Mona shrieked and shoved me off, scrambling across the floor in full-blown panic.

I backed away just as fast, heart pounding.

Half a second later—boom—the chandelier slammed into the spot we'd just been standing. Shattered on impact.

A crystal the size of my fist landed inches from my foot.

Half a step more, and it would've cracked my skull.

Everyone stood frozen.

Mona, still shaking and pale, pointed at me from the floor, screaming, "Psycho! You psycho—you tried to kill me! That's a crime, you know?!"

I brushed myself off and looked down at her. "Funny. That's exactly what I was about to ask you. You forced me to stand there—I just returned the favor.

"If we're assigning blame, it's all yours. Maybe think twice before pulling reckless stunts. It'd be a shame if this brand-new house turned into a crime scene."

Mona jabbed a finger at me. "Y-You bitch! Just wait! I'm firing you and bringing in a real supervisor!"

Her friends helped her up, heels wobbling as they hustled her out.

Exactly what I expected.

I'd already spread the word through my contacts the moment I started gathering proof.

I convinced the original supervisor to bail and warned others off the job.

Mona couldn't find a replacement and went quiet for two days.

Still hated seeing me, though.

Too bad. I was the supervisor. Without my sign-off, she couldn't charge a cent to the card Daxton gave me.

Then one day, she waltzed back in, smug all over her face, holding a reimbursement form.

"This covers the rest of the renovations. Total's $2.6 million. Go confirm the payment."

The budget I gave Daxton? $1.3 million—plenty.

Now she was asking for double.

Where the hell was the extra going?

I opened the list and skimmed it:

Along with the earlier junk, she'd tacked on:

• Air-shipped spring water system from the Alps – $220,000

• Italian hand-gilded wallpaper – $375,000

• Bathtub used by "French royalty" – $1,850,000

Totally fake or insanely overpriced—some marked up tenfold.

I looked at her. "This list serious?"