My Husband Cheats with His Skinny Secretary (She Gets Revenge #9)

Prologue

My husband has his hand on another woman’s ass in the lobby of the Fairmont Hotel.

Full grip. Pulling her into him. Her palm is flat against the front of his pants, stroking his cock, and his face is buried in her neck and the sound he made—I heard it from across the lobby. A low and hungry and desperate groan.

He used to make that sound for me, when I touched him.

But he hasn’t touched me in two years. He said I gained too much weight, after having three children.

I’m sitting in a hotel room six blocks away with the deadbolt thrown and a minibar bottle of vodka sweating on the nightstand, swiping through forty-three photos of my husband with his secretary.

His hand on her hip. Her fingers in his belt.

His mouth on her throat while she arches into him like they couldn’t wait thirty seconds for the elevator.

How fucking dare he?

My best friend Cecily is asleep in the other bed. She came with me when I said I needed evidence. We got the evidence, then we got a hotel room and drank the minibar dry.

But I’m too wired to sleep.

Something in me has moved past the place where tears work—past the shaking hands and the bile and the hot, blinding grief—into somewhere colder. Somewhere with fluorescent lighting and no exits. Somewhere that feels like math.

I swipe to the next photo. The restaurant. His hand reaching across the table, palm up, waiting. Sloane laying her fingers in it. Candlelight on her bare shoulders. Him leaning in to push a strand of hair behind her ear—gentle, slow, the gesture of a man who touches this woman’s face all the time.

Sloane. Twenty-five. A hundred and fifteen pounds soaking wet.

Legs that go on forever, cheekbones that could cut glass, a backless silver dress that hangs off her like she was sewn into it.

His secretary. His secretary. The cliché is so perfect it’s almost funny—powerful man, young assistant, skinny girl in a tight dress.

Except it’s not funny because I’m the other half of that cliché.

The wife at home. The one whose body changed after giving him three children.

Three children I grew inside my body. I pushed them out and fed them from my chest and held them through every fever and every nightmare and every first day of school.

My hips are wider. My stomach is soft. My thighs touch.

That’s what three pregnancies do to a woman’s body and I am not ashamed of it—but he made me ashamed.

He looked at me the way you’d look at a car with a dent in it.

He told me to make an effort. To join a gym.

He hasn’t touched me in two years and I lay next to him night after night after night wondering what was wrong with me—what I’d done, what I’d lost, what part of me had become so repulsive that my own husband couldn’t stand to reach for me in the dark.

Nothing was wrong with me. He was fucking his secretary.

He was fucking her in hotel rooms billed to my family’s company while I was at home in sweatpants cutting sandwiches into the right shapes and wiping marker off the walls and getting on my knees to mop up milk while he stepped over me to take the coffee I made.

I cook his meals. I pack his briefcase. I raise his children.

I press his shirts and schedule his dentist and hang his keys on the hook by the door every single night so he doesn’t have to look for them in the morning.

I do everything. I am the entire infrastructure of his comfortable life and he treats me like a servant—and then he flies first class to San Francisco to wine and dine a woman half my size in a dress I couldn’t even step into.

My husband thinks he’s about to be promoted to CEO of the company my father built from nothing.

He thinks he’s untouchable. He thinks this family’s name and money and legacy are his to ride all the way to the top—right alongside the assistant he parades around like a trophy wife while his actual wife is home on her knees scrubbing his kitchen floor.

He doesn’t know I’m in San Francisco. He doesn’t know about the photos. He doesn’t know my mother has already started the work to fire him from the company.

He is going to lose everything.

And I am going to be sitting in that boardroom when it happens.