CHAPTER TWO
JENNIFER
Three months earlier, I'd decided that Barthalomew Hillson was going to be my ticket to everything I wanted.
It wasn't love. It was never love. It was strategy.
I'd been working as his assistant for eight months, watching him fumble through presentations, relying on me to organize his calendar, fix his mistakes, make him look competent in front of Summit Wilder.
Bart was handsome enough—good jaw, nice shoulders, that eager-puppy energy that made him easy to manipulate—but more importantly, he was accessible.
And he was married to money.
Karrie Parsters-Hillson. God, even her name screamed old wealth and boring privilege.
I'd seen her at company events, always dressed in those tasteful, expensive outfits that probably cost more than my rent.
Always smiling politely, playing the perfect wife, looking like she'd never had a dirty thought in her entire life.
She was everything I wasn't: rich, connected, effortlessly elegant.
She was also everything I didn't want to be: passive, decorative, content to stand beside a mediocre man and pretend he was impressive.
I wanted power. I wanted to climb. And Bart—stupid, vain, easily flattered Bart—was going to help me do it.
The first time I touched him inappropriately, we were alone in his office reviewing quarterly reports. I leaned over his shoulder, letting my breast brush against his arm, and pointed at a spreadsheet.
"This number here," I murmured, my lips close to his ear. "It's wrong. You'll want to fix that before Summit sees it."
He'd frozen. I could feel his breath catch, could practically hear his heartbeat accelerate.
"Thanks, Jen," he'd said, his voice rough. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
I'd smiled and let my hand rest on his shoulder just a fraction too long. "You'd be lost."
It was that easy.
Within two weeks, I had him exactly where I wanted him.
The first time we fucked, it was in a hotel room downtown—his idea, his credit card, his guilty conscience making him choose somewhere far from the office and his perfect little suburban life.
I wore the red lingerie I'd bought specifically for this. Lace and silk that made my body look like a fantasy. When he opened the door and saw me standing there, his eyes went wide with hunger and disbelief.
"Jesus, Jen," he breathed. "You're... fuck, you're incredible."
I walked toward him slowly, deliberately, letting him drink in every curve. "Your wife doesn't do this for you, does she?"
"Karrie?" He laughed, bitter and dismissive. "Karrie wears flannel pajamas and falls asleep by nine. She's too busy with the kids to even remember I exist."
Perfect. I needed him to resent her. Needed him to see me as the exciting alternative to his boring domestic life.
I pushed him onto the bed and straddled him, grinding against the obvious bulge in his pants. "Poor baby. You deserve someone who appreciates you."
"Fuck, yes," he groaned, his hands gripping my hips. "You're so different from her. So much more—"
"More what?" I leaned down, biting his earlobe. "Say it."
"More eager. More sexy. More... alive."
I smiled against his neck. That was exactly what I needed to hear. Not because I cared about his opinion, but because it meant he was comparing us. Meant he was already choosing me over her in his mind.
I unzipped his pants and took him in my hand, stroking slowly. "Tell me what you want."
"I want to fuck you," he said, his voice desperate. "I want to fuck you so hard you forget your own name."
I laughed—a low, sultry sound I'd practiced in the mirror. "Then do it."
He did. And it was... fine. Enthusiastic but unimaginative. He kept saying things like "you're so tight" and "you feel so good" like he was reading from a script. But I moaned and gasped and told him he was amazing, told him his wife didn't know what she was missing.
Afterward, lying in the tangled sheets, he traced patterns on my bare shoulder and said, "I think I'm falling for you."
I kissed him softly, hiding my satisfaction. "I've been falling for you since the day we met."
Lies. All lies. But he believed every word.
Over the next three months, we fell into a pattern. Hotel rooms twice a week. Explicit texts that made him hard during meetings. Stolen moments in his car, my hand down his pants while he drove, his fingers inside me while we were parked in dark corners of the parking garage.
I documented everything. Not for blackmail—I wasn't stupid enough to think I could extort him—but because I wanted proof. Proof that I was desirable, that I could seduce a married man, that I had power.
The texts got filthier as his guilt faded and his addiction to me grew.
Bart: Can't stop thinking about your mouth. When can I have it again?
Me: Tomorrow, lunch. I'll meet you in your office.
Bart: Fuck yes. You're so much better than her. So much more willing to do the things I need.
Me: Tell me what you need, baby.
Bart: I need to fuck you against the wall. Need to hear you scream my name. Need to come inside you and know you're mine.
Me: I'm already yours. She just doesn't know it yet.
That was the game. Making him feel like he was choosing me. Making him believe that eventually, he'd leave Karrie and we'd be together.
I didn't actually want that. The last thing I needed was to be tied down to Barthalomew Hillson, mediocre middle-manager with a decent salary and a boat he couldn't afford.
What I wanted was the appearance of being chosen.
The validation. The proof that I could take something from a woman who had everything.
And maybe, if I played it right, I could leverage the affair into a promotion. Summit Wilder didn't tolerate workplace relationships, but if Bart left his wife for me, if we made it "legitimate," then maybe I could transition from assistant to something more prestigious.
I was playing the long game.
Or so I thought.
The morning of the Janowis meeting, I woke up feeling invincible.
I'd spent the night before with Bart in our usual hotel, and he'd been particularly enthusiastic. He'd told me he loved me—actually said the words—and I'd said them back because that's what the role required.
"I'm going to leave her," he'd whispered against my neck as we lay in the dark. "After this meeting, after I land the Janowis account and get my promotion, I'm going to tell Karrie I want a divorce."
I'd stroked his hair and murmured encouragement, even though I knew he was lying. Men like Bart never left their wives. They liked having both—the respectable home life and the exciting mistress. They wanted their cake and to eat it too.
But I let him believe I believed him.
That morning, I dressed carefully. A skirt just short enough to be distracting, a blouse just tight enough to be suggestive. I wanted Bart to look at me during the meeting and remember what we'd done the night before. Wanted him distracted, focused on me instead of the presentation.
I arrived at the office early and made sure everything was perfect. The conference room was set up flawlessly. The presentation materials were organized. I even made sure Bart's coffee was exactly how he liked it.
When he arrived, he pulled me into his office and kissed me hard, his hands sliding up my thighs.
"Tonight," he murmured. "After this meeting, we're celebrating. I'm going to fuck you in every position you can think of."
I laughed and pushed him away playfully. "Focus, baby. Land this account first. Then you can have me however you want."
He grinned like a kid on Christmas morning. "I love you, Jen."
"Love you too," I said automatically.
The lie tasted like victory.
The meeting started at two o'clock. Summit Wilder himself was attending, which meant this was important. Bart was nervous—I could see it in the way he kept adjusting his tie, the way his hands trembled slightly as he pulled up the presentation.
I sat beside him, close enough that our arms almost touched, and gave him an encouraging smile.
Summit watched us with those dark, unreadable eyes. He was intimidating as hell—the kind of man who could destroy your career with a single word. I'd always been careful around him, professional and deferential, because I knew he didn't tolerate bullshit.
But today, I felt confident. Bart was going to nail this presentation, Summit was going to be impressed, and my future was going to open up like a flower.
Bart was halfway through his pitch when the conference room door opened.
I didn't look up immediately—assumed it was someone from the team joining late. But then I heard Bart's voice, strangled and horrified: "Karrie? What are you doing here?"
I looked up.
And my entire world tilted sideways.
Karrie Parsters-Hillson stood in the doorway like an avenging angel. She was wearing white—a designer dress that probably cost more than my car—and she looked absolutely furious. Not crying, not hysterical, not the broken, betrayed wife I'd imagined.
She looked like she was about to burn the building down.
"I know exactly what you're in the middle of, Barthalomew," she said, her voice calm and deadly. "Or should I say, who you've been in the middle of?"
My stomach dropped.
No. No, this wasn't supposed to happen. She wasn't supposed to know. And even if she knew, she wasn't supposed to confront him here, in front of Summit, in front of everyone—
"Karrie, this isn't the time—" Bart started, his face white as paper.
"Oh, I think this is the perfect time." She pulled out her phone, and my blood turned to ice. "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."
She started swiping through her phone, and I saw it—screenshots. Messages. Our messages.
Oh God.
Oh God, no.
She had everything. Every filthy text, every explicit photo, every piece of evidence that proved exactly what we'd been doing.
"Jesus Christ," one of the executives muttered.