Betrayal By Appointment

CHAPTER ONE

KARRIE

Marlow had been crying—teething again, poor baby—and I'd stumbled downstairs to warm milk, my eyes half-closed, my body moving on autopilot. Bart's phone sat on the kitchen counter, face-up, screen glowing with a notification that made my blood freeze in my veins.

Jennifer: I can still taste you. When can we do that again?

My hands trembled as I picked up his phone. No passcode. He'd never bothered with one because he'd never had anything to hide. Or so I'd thought.

I should have put it down. Should have woken him, confronted him immediately, screamed until the windows shattered. Instead, I opened his messages with the cold, methodical precision of a surgeon making the first incision.

What I found destroyed me.

Months of messages. Months. Explicit photographs that made bile rise in my throat—her sprawled across hotel sheets, her mouth wrapped around him, his hands gripping her hair.

Videos I couldn't bring myself to watch beyond the first few seconds.

Conversations dripping with the kind of intimacy that should have been mine alone.

Bart: You're so much more eager. Tighter even.

Jennifer: She doesn't appreciate what she has. I'll show you what a real woman does.

Bart: Can't wait to fuck that pretty mouth again. Tomorrow after the Janowis meeting?

Jennifer: I'll wear the red lingerie you bought me. The set your wife will never see.

I stood in my kitchen—my kitchen, in the house my family's money had purchased—reading message after message while my two-year-old daughter cried upstairs and my one-year-old daughter slept peacefully in her crib, blissfully unaware that their father was a cheating bastard who'd been fucking his assistant in hotel rooms across the city.

The milk boiled over. I didn't move.

I should have been crying. Should have been collapsing, breaking, shattering into a million pieces. Instead, I felt something else entirely: a cold, crystalline clarity that settled over me like armor.

Barthalomew Hillson had made a mistake. A catastrophic, life-destroying mistake.

And I was going to make him pay for every single second of it.

I didn't sleep that night. I sat at the kitchen table with his phone, methodically screenshotting every message, every photo, every piece of evidence.

I forwarded them all to my personal email, then deleted the sent messages from his phone.

I checked his bank statements—easy enough since I managed our household finances—and found the hotel charges, the lingerie purchases, the expensive dinners at restaurants he'd told me were "client meetings. "

The Janowis account he'd mentioned? I knew that meeting. It was scheduled for two o'clock today in the main conference room. Summit Wilder himself would be attending—Bart's boss, the CEO of Wilder Enterprises, the man whose company Bart had been so desperate to impress.

Perfect.

By the time dawn broke over our manicured lawn, I had a plan.

Not just a confrontation—a complete and total annihilation.

I would destroy him in front of everyone who mattered.

I would humiliate him so thoroughly that he'd never recover.

And I would do it with the prenup my father had insisted on, the one that protected every asset my family had contributed to our marriage.

Which was almost everything.

Bart had married up. Way up. My family's wealth dwarfed his middle-class background, and my father—for all his faults—had been smart enough to protect me legally.

The house, the cars, the investment accounts, even Bart's precious boat—all of it was technically mine.

The prenup stipulated that in the event of infidelity, the offending party forfeited any claim to marital assets.

Bart had signed it without reading it carefully, too dazzled by the Parsters family money to care about the fine print.

Now it would ruin him.

I fed the children breakfast with steady hands. Changed diapers. Sang songs. Kissed their perfect little faces and felt my resolve harden into something unbreakable. They deserved better than a father who'd betray their mother without a second thought.

When Bart came downstairs at seven-thirty, whistling cheerfully, I smiled at him.

"Good morning, honey," I said sweetly. "Big day today, right? The Janowis meeting?"

He kissed my cheek—the same mouth that had been on her—and grinned. "Yeah, Summit's going to be there. If we land this account, I'm looking at a serious promotion."

"That's wonderful." I poured his coffee exactly how he liked it. "You should wear the blue tie. The one I bought you for your birthday."

"Good idea." He squeezed my shoulder affectionately, completely oblivious. "What would I do without you?"

Survive, I thought coldly. But not for much longer.

I arrived at Wilder Enterprises at 1:45 PM, dressed in a white sheath dress that had cost more than Bart made in a month—a deliberate choice. White for the wronged wife. Designer labels for the power they conveyed. My hair was perfect, my makeup flawless, my heels sharp enough to be weapons.

I looked like money. Old money. The kind of money that could destroy a middle-class man's life without breaking a sweat.

The receptionist recognized me—I'd been to company events before, the dutiful wife on Bart's arm. "Mrs. Hillson! Are you here for the Janowis meeting?"

"Actually, I need to speak with my husband urgently. Family emergency." I let my voice tremble just slightly. "Is he in the conference room?"

"Yes, but the meeting's about to start—"

"This can't wait." I was already moving past her, my heels clicking authoritatively on the marble floor. She didn't try to stop me.

The conference room was on the executive floor, all glass walls and expensive furniture.

Through the transparent panels, I could see them: Bart at the head of the table, gesturing animatedly.

Jennifer sitting beside him, her hand resting possessively on the armrest between them, her skirt hiked just high enough to be unprofessional.

And Summit Wilder at the far end, his dark eyes focused on Bart with the intensity of a predator assessing prey.

I'd met Summit exactly three times before. Company holiday party. Summer barbecue. Charity gala. Each time, I'd felt his gaze linger on me just a fraction too long, had caught him watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read. Bart had been too self-absorbed to notice, but I had.

Summit Wilder was the kind of man who noticed everything.

He was beautiful in a brutal way—sharp jaw, broad shoulders, the kind of controlled power that came from years of building an empire from nothing. He wore authority like a second skin, and rumor had it he was absolutely ruthless in business.

Today, I was counting on it.

I pushed open the conference room door without knocking.

Every head turned. Bart's face went white. Jennifer's went red. Summit's expression didn't change at all, but something flickered in his dark eyes—interest, maybe. Or recognition.

"Karrie?" Bart stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "What are you doing here? I'm in the middle of—"

"I know exactly what you're in the middle of, Barthalomew." My voice was calm, almost pleasant. I walked into the room like I owned it, letting the door close behind me with a soft click. "Or should I say, who you've been in the middle of?"

The silence was deafening.

Jennifer's face drained of color. Bart looked like he might vomit. The other executives—three men I vaguely recognized—exchanged uncomfortable glances.

Summit leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, and watched me with undisguised fascination.

"Karrie, this isn't the time—" Bart started.

"Oh, I think this is the perfect time." I pulled my phone from my purse, tapped the screen, and turned it toward the room.

"I thought your colleagues might be interested in knowing exactly what kind of man they're working with.

The kind who fucks his assistant in hotel rooms while his wife is home with their two babies. "

I swiped through the screenshots. Messages. Photos. Receipts. Every damning piece of evidence displayed in high definition.

"Jesus Christ," one of the executives muttered.

Jennifer made a small, strangled sound.

Bart lunged toward me. "Give me that—"

"Don't." Summit's voice cracked like a whip. He hadn't moved, but the command in that single word froze Bart mid-step. "Don't touch her."

Bart's hands fell to his sides. He looked at Summit desperately. "Sir, I can explain—"

"I doubt that very much." Summit's gaze shifted to Jennifer, who looked like she wanted to disappear into the floor. "Ms. Drewble. You're dismissed. Clean out your desk. Security will escort you from the building."

"Mr. Wilder, please—" Jennifer's voice was shaking. "I didn't—we didn't mean—"

"You didn't mean to fuck a married man? A colleague? In violation of company policy?" Summit's tone was arctic. "Or you didn't mean to get caught?"

Jennifer's mouth opened and closed soundlessly. Then she grabbed her bag and fled, her heels clattering frantically down the hallway.

One down.

I turned my attention back to Bart, who was staring at me like I'd grown a second head. "Karrie, please. Can we talk about this privately?"

"Why? You didn't fuck her privately. You did it in hotels, in your car, probably in this very building." I took a step closer, letting him see the cold fury in my eyes. "Did you really think I wouldn't find out? Did you think I was that stupid?"

"I never thought you were stupid—"

"No, you just thought I was convenient. The rich wife who paid for your lifestyle while you screwed your way through the office.

" I smiled, sharp and vicious. "Tell me, Bart.

When you were inside her, did you think about me at home with our children?

Or were you too busy enjoying how 'tight' she is? "

His face went crimson. "You read my messages."