Chapter 2

The crystal-clear waters of Bali were supposed to wash away the memory of our disastrous wedding night. Instead, they became the backdrop to my growing realization that my marriage was built on lies.

I was lounging by our private villa pool, scrolling through work emails I shouldn't have been checking on our honeymoon. Harrison had gone to fetch fresh coconuts from the resort bar—or so he claimed.

His phone buzzed on the table between us. Once. Twice. Three times in quick succession.

I shouldn't look, I told myself. But something in me—perhaps the same instinct that had made me a successful executive—needed to know.

One swipe revealed a string of messages that made my stomach drop.

Saoirse: Miss you already. Wish I was there with you instead.

Attached was a photo of her in black lingerie, her auburn hair spilling over her shoulders.

Harrison: You know you're my favorite.

Saoirse: Prove it.

Harrison: Tonight. When Leslie falls asleep.

I scrolled further up, finding weeks of similar exchanges. Photos. Pet names. References to their "special connection" that made me physically ill.

"Looking at something you shouldn't?"

I startled, nearly dropping the phone as Harrison returned. His smile faded when he saw what I was holding.

"Is this why you left so suddenly?" I asked, my voice dangerously calm. "To text her?"

"It's not what you think," he said, snatching the phone from my hand. "She's just being friendly."

"Friendly?" I repeated, the word tasting bitter. "Is sending you lingerie photos friendly?"

"You're overreacting," he snapped, his face flushing. "And you had no right to go through my phone."

"No right?" My voice rose despite my efforts to control it. "I'm your wife, Harrison."

"And I'm still allowed to have privacy," he countered. "Saoirse has been my friend for twenty years. She texts me anytime she wants. Even during our honeymoon."

"Especially during our honeymoon," I corrected, rising from my lounge chair. "Do you even hear yourself?"

---

Three weeks later, we hosted our first dinner party as a married couple. Our penthouse was filled with Harrison's friends and family—all people who had known him far longer than I had.

I'd spent days planning the perfect menu, decorating our dining room with elegant arrangements of white orchids and silver candelabras.

"They're here!" Harrison announced as the elevator doors opened.

Saoirse stepped out, fashionably late as always, wearing a red dress that clung to every curve. Her eyes swept over me with barely concealed triumph.

"Sorry I'm late," she purred, kissing Harrison on both cheeks, lingering just a moment too long. "Traffic was terrible."

"You're never late," Harrison's mother, Victoria, said warmly. "Not when it matters."

Throughout dinner, I watched as Harrison lit up in Saoirse's presence. He laughed at her jokes, leaned in when she spoke, and practically ignored everyone else at the table—including me.

"Remember that summer in the Hamptons?" Saoirse reminisced, touching Harrison's arm. "When we snuck out to that beach party?"

"The best night," Harrison agreed, his eyes sparkling with memories I wasn't part of.

I tried to join the conversation. "Harrison mentioned you two have known each other since childhood."

"Oh, we know everything about each other," Victoria interjected before Saoirse could respond. "Saoirse understands Harrison better than anyone."

"Better than his wife?" I couldn't help asking.

Victoria's smile tightened. "Some bonds can't be replaced by a wedding certificate, dear."

I sat back, champagne untouched, as the evening continued. Every attempt I made to participate was subtly undermined, every contribution dismissed.

---

That night, after everyone had left, I made a decision.

If Harrison wouldn't cut ties with Saoirse, I would have to take matters into my own hands.

I created a new folder on my laptop, labeling it simply "S."

Over the next weeks, I gathered everything I could find about Saoirse Williamson. Social media posts. Mutual acquaintances. Public records.

What emerged was a pattern of manipulation that went far beyond Harrison.

Hotel receipts with Marcus Chen's name on them—dated during their engagement.

Photos of her with other men at intimate dinners while Marcus was traveling.

Testimonies from former friends who had witnessed her deliberate sabotage of relationships.

I printed everything, organized it meticulously, and locked it in my private safe.

Saoirse thought she was playing a game. She had no idea I was building a case.

As I closed the safe, my phone buzzed with a text from Harrison.

"Late meeting with clients. Don't wait up."

I smiled coldly as I typed my response.

"Take your time. I'm busy researching something important."

Little did he know, I was researching the destruction of his precious Saoirse's carefully constructed facade.