Chapter 1
My husband was cheating on me with a pure, naive college student.
I secretly followed her.
She was the classic rich kid—attending the best university in Capital City, living in a mansion, always chauffeured around, and had a strict curfew.
Even when she was sneaking around with my husband, she still stuck to her schedule.
"No, I have to get home on time, or my brother will be mad," she'd say.
I sent the evidence of their secret meetings straight to her brother.
[Bet you had no idea your sister was out here ruining someone else's marriage, huh?]
A week later, he finally texted me back.
[Got it.]
[Looks like I'm the one getting cheated on.]
I stared at those words on the screen, and my mind just went completely blank.
For a whole minute, I just sat there, totally spaced out.
Did he seriously just type that wrong?
Wait, wasn't he supposed to be that college girl's brother? How could he be the one getting played?
With trembling fingers, I quickly typed out a reply.
[Are you sure you didn't make a typo?]
Right away, the "typing" indicator popped up at the top of the screen.
Two seconds later, a new message appeared.
[Nope, didn't mistype.]
[Let's meet up. Some things can't really be explained over text.]
Turns out this was way more exciting than I thought.
[Okay, when and where?] I replied without a second thought.
[Tonight at 8 PM, the Velvet Lounge, private room V3 on the top floor.]
At 7:50 PM, I pushed open the heavy, carved wooden door to private room V3 at the Velvet Lounge.
The air conditioning was blasting, and a faint, cool scent of ebony and agarwood lingered in the air.
Through the dim, intimate lighting, I spotted a man sitting on the main leather sofa.
He was way younger than I'd pictured.
He couldn't have been more than twenty-eight or twenty-nine.
He was dressed in a jet-black, custom-tailored suit, no tie, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, giving a glimpse of his angular collarbone.
His features were chiseled, his jawline cold and hard as if carved from stone, and his deep-set eyes gave off an effortless air of authority.
He idly swirled a half-full glass of whiskey in his hand, the ice clinking sharply against the glass.
At the sound of the door opening, he slowly lifted his eyes, his gaze landing right on me.
His gaze was piercing, like he could see straight through me.
"Mrs. Lane?"
His voice was deep and steely, impossible to tell what he was feeling.
"That's me."
Shaking off the uneasy feeling of being under his gaze, I clicked across the floor in my heels and dropped my Hermès bag onto the marble coffee table without a second thought.
Then I took a seat right across from him on the sofa, sitting up straight.
He seemed a bit surprised by how composed I was. His long fingers tapped twice on the armrest.
"I'm James Sterling," he said, setting his glass down, his lips parted slightly.
"Vanessa Summers'..." I dragged out the last syllable, locking eyes with him, determined to dig out the ugly truth behind all this.
"Fiancé."
James gave a cold, sarcastic laugh, his lips twisting into a wickedly mocking smile.
"To be exact, our families decided we'd be engaged when we were kids, and now the whole marriage arrangement is already in motion."
Suddenly, it all made sense.
"So that's how it is," I gave a short laugh. The whole thing was just absurd.
"So, all that 'brother' stuff was just a cover—she's actually your fiancée."
I shot James a provocative look, my voice laced with sarcasm. "Mr. Sterling, you wear that cuckold crown nice and tight, don't you?"
A hint of darkness flashed through James's eyes.
He suddenly leaned in, elbows on his knees, bringing us closer.
"Damn, Mrs. Lane, your words are even more poisonous than I imagined."
"I'm just being forced here," I met his gaze without backing down.
James smirked, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. He pulled a blank check from the inside pocket of his suit, held it between two fingers, and gently pushed it toward me.
"I've seen the photos and hotel records you sent me."
He stared at me, his eyes showing a sick kind of fixation.
"But that's not enough."
I frowned, glancing at the check on the table. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"I want the whole story, word for word, nothing left out.
"I want to know exactly how my supposedly well-behaved fiancée was out there, messing around with your husband behind my back.
"Where did they first meet? How did they start hooking up? Which hotels did they use?"
"I want to know every little thing you saw when you were tailing her. Don't leave anything out."
I glanced down at the blank check—he was basically letting me name my price. Without even touching it, I pushed the check right back to him, untouched.
James raised an eyebrow. "Not enough for you?"
"Mr. Sterling, I may not have a family empire like yours, but I don't need your hush money."
I leaned back against the sofa, arms crossed, and shot him a frosty stare.
"Now that we're both victims, sitting here together makes us partners by default.
"If you want the details, I'll lay it all out for you—it's way crazier than you think.
"But I have one condition."
He looked genuinely entertained now. He leaned back on the sofa, fixing his gaze on me, clearly getting a kick out of this. "Go on."
"I want my husband to leave with absolutely nothing to his name, and his reputation dragged through the mud."
I gritted my teeth, forcing out each word, dripping with hate.
"And I want your fiancée to suffer ten times worse than he ever will!
"Can you make that happen?"
James held my gaze for a long moment, then let out a low, quiet laugh.
"Mrs. Lane, you're just my kind of ally."
He picked up the whiskey bottle, poured half a glass into a clean tumbler, and slid it across the table to me.
"It just so happens, that's exactly why I wanted to meet you tonight."
James lifted his glass, swirling the whiskey in midair, his gaze as cold and lethal as a poisoned blade.
"Now, why don't you introduce your husband? What's his line of work?"