Chapter 1
My husband, Derick Shorts, who was a movie star, was caught red-handed by paparazzi bringing a young model home late at night.
The hot search blew up, and the whole internet was waiting for me, who was his wife, to respond.
The next day, I went live without makeup, crying as I apologized to my husband, "I'm sorry, Derick. It's all my fault for not leaving your allergy meds by the bed last night.
"You had a reaction and had to go to the hospital. Miss Row drove you there, but she ended up getting dragged into the mess."
As I apologized, I "accidentally" knocked over the documents on the table.
A report stamped with the hospital's red seal quietly slipped out.
My phone buzzed just as I was trimming my houseplants.
The screen lit up, and the news headline felt like a dagger straight to my heart.
It read: [Breaking news. Movie star Derick Shorts was caught bringing a young model home late at night. Rumors of marriage trouble!]
There were nine photos in total.
Each one was shockingly clear.
They included a hug in the underground garage, the cozy moment in the elevator, and the front door with the password lock I picked out myself. It was opened by a delicate hand.
Derick looked like a stranger to me in those photos.
He was smiling so gently, his eyes so full of love it almost spilled out of the screen.
The girl he was holding was young, gorgeous, her face practically glowing with youth.
The men's coat she was wearing was the birthday gift I'd given Derick just last month.
I'd ironed it three times, but he never wore it.
It turned out that he actually liked it. He just wanted to show it off to someone he cared about more.
My phone started buzzing nonstop. My agent, my assistant, my friends, even my mom all the way back in my hometown, were calling me.
I ignored them all.
The world was in chaos, but all I could hear was the ringing in my ears.
I opened the comments section.
A person wrote: [I knew it. Once a guy gets rich, he turns bad. Feel bad for Gillian.]
Another wrote: [Ten years of marriage, sticking with Derick from a nobody to a movie star, and this is what she gets? Seriously?]
Someone wrote: [Gillian, run. That jerk isn't worth it!]
Someone else wrote: [Come on, guys, don't be stupid. She can't leave. Without Derick, she's just another stay-at-home wife.]
That last comment shot straight to the top.
To everyone, I was just Derick's accessory.
I was just a shadow in his spotlight, barely noticed, only existing because of him.
Right then, Derick called.
I stared at the contact name, "Husband", on my phone for a solid ten seconds before I finally answered.
On the other end, his voice was hoarse and hungover, tinged with impatience.
He said, "You saw it?"
It wasn't a question. He was just stating the obvious.
"Yeah," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.
"The PR team's already on it. They'll put out a statement later, saying it was a cast dinner and that girl's a crew member. I was giving her a ride home," he said.
He handled everything with practiced ease, like it was just another trivial task.
"Gillian, remember this. No matter who asks you tomorrow, you stick to that story," he said.
His tone was all command, no room for argument.
"Just stay quiet. Don't do anything. Don't say anything. Wait until things calm down," he said.
"Do you really think this will just go away?" I asked.
He gave a short, mocking laugh.
"What's the big deal? Gillian, don't forget that everything you have now was given to you by me. Don't start acting up. You know what happens if you do," he said.
Then he hung up.
I listened to the endless beeping on the other end, and slowly, a cold smile crept onto my lips.
It was right.
Everything I had now came from Derick.
So I would make sure he would get the humiliation he handed me back twice over. That would be considered fair.
I set my phone down and went back to trimming my clivia lily.
I cut away every yellowed, withered leaf, snip after snip, until all that remained was a bare stalk and roots.
It was time to repot it with fresh soil.
I didn't sleep a wink all night.
By morning, I called my lawyer, Hugh.
"Mr. Mcgee, I need you to draw up a divorce agreement for me," I said.
Hugh was silent for a moment.
"Are you sure about this?" he asked.
"Yeah," I replied.
"Derick's the one at fault here. We can fight for most of the assets," Hugh said.
I cut him off, "No. I don't want most of it. I want him out with nothing."
Hugh was clearly caught off guard by how calm I sounded.
"Gillian, that's gonna be tough. Unless you've got some damning evidence of him cheating, like, over and over, for a long time. That's the only way it'll work," he said.
I walked into my study and unlocked the lowest drawer.
Inside was a hefty pile of folders.
"I've got the evidence," I said.
I wasn't waiting around these ten years.
The first time Derick stayed out all night, I told myself that he must be busy with work.