Five years into our marriage, Ethan Cole fell in love.
Not with me, obviously.
He was so afraid I’d hurt her that he went all-out to protect the poor little thing.
When his brother asked why he didn’t just divorce me, Ethan sighed, “Savannah’s the kind you marry—she takes care of the house, the image, the family. Luna’s too young. She couldn’t handle all that. She just needs to be with me.”
Ethan didn’t pick. He kept both.
But I’m not the type who hoards trash. I take it out.
The plant on Ethan’s desk had changed.
Gone was the ZZ plant in the white ceramic pot I’d picked out for him. In its place: a tacky little succulent garden that looked like it came straight off an Etsy ad titled “Tiny Desert Dreams.”
I hadn’t been to his office in a while.
This time, I had to be announced by the damn secretary.
Inside, a young assistant in a crisp white blazer stood by his side. Luna Parker. She jumped like a guilty high schooler when she saw me and snapped her folder shut.
“Could you grab me a coffee, thanks,” I said before she could scurry away.
She looked to Ethan first—of course she did—then walked out.
I sat across from my husband and started going over the list of corporate holiday obligations and networking events. I kept notes in my phone while he casually nodded, always with that fake patience he reserved for when I spoke too long.
I caught her approaching from the corner of my eye. As I reached out for the cup, Luna squeaked.
The cup tilted. Hot coffee splashed all over my hand.
I jerked back on instinct, breath hitching.
Ethan shot up from his chair, looking panicked. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“I’m okay,” Luna parroted immediately, voice trembling.
I looked at her. Her eyes were red-rimmed like she was about to cry. Seriously?
Ethan reached for my hand, inspecting it like he actually gave a damn.
“I—I thought Mrs. Cole had it,” Luna stammered, visibly shaking. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Get out,” Ethan said, tone sharp and cold.
She bit her lip hard, wiped away a tear dramatically, and ran out.
Jesus. I’d never seen an assistant cry like that in front of their boss before. She was either sleeping with him or applying for a daytime soap.
“You want to get that looked at?” Ethan asked softly.
I shook my head.
“How’d someone this clumsy make it through your standards?”
Ethan always acted composed, sophisticated, but truth was—he had zero tolerance for incompetence. He once fired someone for typing with two fingers.
“She’s from some backwater town. Nervous type. Her family’s broke. I didn’t want to make a thing of it,” he replied.
My stomach dropped. Since when did Ethan Cole start giving out sympathy points?
That wasn’t him.
And women know. We always know.
Something was going on. I just didn’t know how deep.
Ethan’s phone, facedown on the table, buzzed a few times. He didn’t touch it.
Instead, he stayed focused on finalizing the guest list with me.
Afterward, I packed up. “Where do you want to go for dinner tonight?”
He blinked. “Huh?”
He glanced at his phone and then gave me that apologetic smile I’d seen too many times lately. “I’ve got a thing tonight… You could come? But everyone smokes and drinks, it’ll be gross—”
I waved him off. “It’s fine. You do your thing.”
He walked me to the elevator like a gentleman, like always. “Thanks for taking care of everything lately. I’ll try to be home early.”
Ethan always knew how to say the right thing, how to sound like a man in love.
Too bad it was just a script by now.
Down in the garage, I called Mr. Harris. “There’s a file in Ethan’s car I need. Can you come unlock it?”
He showed up fast. Mr. Harris had been Ethan’s driver since before our wedding. Loyal, discreet, old-school.
The backseat was filled with my things—spare tote, a cashmere throw, a custom neck pillow with my initials.
I slipped a recorder inside the neck rest.
As I grabbed a folder, I smiled. “Thanks for rushing down. Your daughter’s graduating this year, right?”
“She is. Her teacher thinks she’s got a shot at a top school. Honestly, it’s thanks to the tutor you found for her. I wouldn’t have even known where to start.”
“You give yourself too little credit,” I said. “She’s a smart girl. You’ve worked hard.”
His smile tightened. He hesitated, then said, low, “Mr. Cole’s been… real busy lately. You might want to keep an eye out, ma’am.”
I nodded.
I already knew.
Ethan was cheating.
Mr. Harris didn’t spell it out, but he didn’t have to.
Back home, I collapsed onto the couch like someone had punched the soul out of me. But a tiny part of me still hoped I was wrong.
He’d always remembered anniversaries. Picked the perfect gifts. Threw surprise dinners. He made me look like the poster wife in every friend group.
But maybe that was guilt wrapped in designer bows.
I rubbed my temples, trying to recall every red flag I’d missed.
That girl—Luna—she didn’t even seem like his type. No curves, no presence. Shy. Mousy.
Then it hit me.
I’d seen that face before.
I pulled up her profile in the company system. She’d only been hired two months ago. But her first “thank you” appearance?
Four years back.
Dragging a goddamn duffel of homemade crap to the office doorstep.
She came to thank the “kind donor” who’d helped her pay tuition. Said she just wanted to show her appreciation. Classic PR-stunt charity—Ethan’s company did that crap for tax write-offs. The pick of poor kids had actually been my idea.
I never gave permission to reveal our names. But somehow she found the address.
She showed up, skinny and sunburned, looking like she’d walked there from a truck stop in Mississippi. Didn’t dare step past the threshold. Just stood there mumbling thanks and pointing at the sack of whatever-the-hell she brought.
Ethan took one look at her and sneered. “No need for thanks. Don’t come here uninvited again.”
She looked like she might cry.
I nudged Ethan, annoyed. “Jesus, could you not be such a dick? She brought all this stuff on a bus from nowhere.”
I took the bag. Told the housekeeper to send her off with a basket of fruit.
She ran off like she’d been shot.
And now?
That same girl had Ethan wrapped around her finger.
Guess she learned how to play real fast.
Ethan came home late. Drunk as hell.
Mr. Harris had to half-carry him through the door. He mumbled my name like it still meant something.
I didn’t move. Just nodded at the couch. “Leave him there.”
Mr. Harris set the keys on the entryway table and left without a word.
“My head… baby… I feel like shit…” Ethan groaned behind me.
I didn’t answer. I headed straight for the garage.
His car reeked of alcohol. But underneath that sharp bourbon burn, there it was—perfume. Sweet. Floral. Not mine.
I slid into the passenger seat and reached behind the headrest. Pulled out the tiny recorder I’d hidden earlier.
I hit play.
At first, nothing but shuffling.
Then a whiny voice—Luna.
“Why’d you yell at me like that?” she sniffled. “Did you spill the coffee on her on purpose?”
No denial.
“You don’t know how much I love you,” she sobbed. “If you leave me, I’ll die. I can’t stand seeing her near you! I want you to be mine. Only mine!”
There was the sound of clothing rustling. Then Ethan’s voice, low and breathless.
“I can do this with you. Can she?”
And then—“Open your mouth.”
I didn’t need to hear what followed.
But I listened.
Every moan, every groan, every slurp and grunt and disgusting gasp that confirmed exactly what I already knew.
I sat frozen, my stomach churning, my skin cold and clammy.
Eventually, there was a shuffle again. Then another voice.
Patrick.
“You seriously gonna help your assistant dodge drinks at a client dinner? Come on, man. You’re the CEO, not her babysitter.”
Ethan laughed, that smug drunk chuckle I’d always hated.
“She’s so dumb. She says she doesn’t need anything—just wants to be with me.”
“She makes me feel relaxed… like I can breathe around her.”
“She gets hurt and I get… I don’t know. Protective. Is that love?”
Patrick clicked his tongue. “Look, dude. You wanna play, go ahead. But you know Savannah doesn’t take bullshit. She’ll gut you if she finds out.”
There was silence.
Then Ethan sighed.
“Savannah’s… She’s the kind of woman you marry. She knows how to run a home, manage people. She’s smart. I do still care about her. But not like that anymore. What we have—it’s not love. It’s family. She feels like a sister. Or a… responsibility.”
Patrick coughed. “You’re kidding.”
“I don’t want to hurt Savannah. But I can’t stop thinking about Luna. She’s… I don’t know. She’s needy, innocent. She makes me feel wanted, like I’m actually free.”
“Savannah… scares me a little. She doesn’t work at the office, but she’s got finance and HR in her pocket. Every major client relationship runs through her. I have to walk on eggshells. I’m not her husband—I’m her goddamn employee.”
“I have to beg her for everything. It’s like I’m her bitch.”
Patrick let out a long whistle. “Jesus. That’s rough.”
“I’m not divorcing her,” Ethan said finally. “Savannah gets the title. Luna gets the love.”
Patrick sucked in a breath. “You really think you can have both?”
There was a pause. Then, slurred but steady, Ethan mumbled, “I won’t let Savannah hurt Luna.”
By the time it ended, I was numb.
I thought I’d be screaming, sobbing, plotting revenge.
But I wasn’t.
Because none of it mattered anymore.
The marriage license. The rings. The so-called love.
He didn’t get to choose.
I would.
And I chose divorce.
When I got back upstairs, Ethan was sitting upright on the couch, looking like hell.
“Baby… where’d you go? My head’s splitting…”
He stumbled toward me, arms out like a toddler.
I stepped aside.
Just the thought of his hands on me made my stomach twist.
“Baby…”
“You reek. You’re disgusting.”
He bolted for the bathroom and puked his soul out.
I waited until I heard the shower running, then grabbed his phone.
Face ID still worked.
Everything looked normal on the surface.
No messages. No call logs. No sketchy apps. No selfies of them together. Nothing.
He’d wiped it clean.
I scrolled through the messages with Luna. Just work chatter. Cold. Boring.
But her profile photo?
A selfie on the balcony of an ocean-view penthouse, wearing a lavender spaghetti strap top. Designer shades, lips pouty, smug expression. Reflection in her sunglasses? A man’s silhouette.
Guess subtlety wasn’t her thing.
I pulled up Ethan’s bank statements.
There it was.
A stream of transfers to the same account. First small—$500, $1,000, $2,000…
Then $10,000. $13,140. $52,000.
The biggest? Over a hundred grand.
I started recording my screen, thumb aching as I scrolled through transfer after transfer.
People always say no woman walks away from her husband’s phone smiling.
Turns out, they were right.
Every. Damn. Word.
Ethan walked out of the shower with just a towel slung low on his hips.
He looked… perfect.
Tall, lean, toned—like someone straight out of a men’s fitness spread. The kind of guy who knows how to wear both a tailored Armani suit and a threadbare tee like he owns the room.
Everyone said I’d snagged a rising star. A unicorn. A fucking catch.
My relatives warned me not to let my guard down, even after marriage. “Keep your man on a tight leash,” they’d say, half-joking.
As if a leash could stop a man already hunting.
In college, Ethan had been the golden boy—basketball captain, academic scholarship, straight-A charm machine. Girls threw themselves at him like groupies at a concert. I’d had to peel more than one desperate chick off his arm.
But we made it. Or so I thought.
Through the fights. Through the broke-ass ramen years of building his company. I stayed. I built with him.
I thought that meant something.
Turns out, I was just part of the business plan.
“Savannah.”
He sounded almost sober.
I stood by the balcony, wind in my hair, eyes on the city lights.
“I’m sorry. I drank too much. They were all pushing shots. Patrick got me out before things got messy.”
He dropped Patrick’s name like a goddamn alibi.
“My head’s pounding. Can we talk tomorrow? I’ll sleep in the guest room.”
Always the gentleman. Always so polite. He used to tell me it was respect.
Now I knew better.
He was careful because I was dangerous.
Because I held leverage.
Because I was useful.
And that… stung.
Like a hole ripped clean through my chest, wind slicing straight in.
But I’d learned one thing: grown-ass adults need to own their shit.
Love doesn’t excuse betrayal.
Cut your losses and move on.
Ethan made breakfast the next morning.
He was good at it, annoyingly so. Used to be our thing—him in the kitchen, me perched on the counter, dreaming out loud while he chopped and flipped and teased me with bites of whatever he was cooking.
It felt like a different life.
“Been a while since I cooked for you,” he said, watching me like he wanted a gold star.
I sipped my coffee and said nothing.
“Once this project wraps, let’s take a trip. Maybe Aspen. Or Cabo. Somewhere quiet.”
“And my mom called,” he added, too casually. “She asked if we were thinking about kids.”
He didn’t wait for me to respond. “No pressure though. Just… whenever we’re ready.”
I took another sip.
He’d have no problem finding someone desperate to pop out his kid.
“You okay? You look tired,” he said, reaching for my face.
I flinched away.
The doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it.”
I opened the door.
Luna fucking Parker.
Standing there in a too-tight cardigan, her hand outstretched, holding Ethan’s tie clip.
She smiled like she’d just pissed on her territory and wanted me to watch.
Ethan came around the corner. “What are you doing here?”
“You were drunk last night. I didn’t want you to miss the meeting this morning.”
Her voice was soft, syrupy, just innocent enough to sound fake as hell.
“I’ve got it handled. Go home,” I said before Ethan could speak.
She pouted. Gave Ethan a long, wet-eyed look. Then turned and left.
I stayed by the window.
She didn’t go far.
Five minutes later, Ethan walked out, phone in one hand, briefcase in the other.
Luna lit up like a damn Christmas tree, threw her arms around him.
He tried to push her off. She clung tighter.
He didn’t fight long.
They got in the car and drove off together.
Right before she climbed in, she turned, looked up at my window, and smiled like the smug little homewrecking bitch she was.
You must be logged in to post a comment.