Cheated On Me? I Married a Tycoon

Ayla sat on the edge of the custom Italian leather sofa in the master bedroom of the Farrell estate. The glow of her laptop screen illuminated her face in the dim room. She scrolled through the PR itinerary for the Farrell Group's upcoming week, double-checking every interview slot and press release. Outside the heavy mahogany doors, the distinct, low growl of an Aston Martin engine cut through the quiet Atherton night. The engine shut off. Ayla immediately closed her laptop, setting it on the glass coffee table. She stood up and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling mirror. She smoothed her hands down the sides of her silk nightgown, adjusting the hem to make sure it fell perfectly. The heavy double doors to the bedroom pushed open. Axel walked in, bringing a rush of cold California night air with him. Ayla let a soft, practiced smile touch her lips. She walked toward him, automatically reaching out to take his haute couture suit jacket as he slipped it off his shoulders. As the heavy fabric settled into her hands, a scent hit her. It was faint, but unmistakable. A heavy blend of sandalwood and crushed roses. Ayla's fingers stiffened against the wool lapels. Her movements stopped completely. She only ever used unscented, medical-grade skincare. She never wore perfume. Axel didn't notice her hesitation. He leaned in and pressed a dry, dismissive kiss to her forehead. He pulled back, already lifting a hand to rub the bridge of his nose. "The closed-door meeting with Sequoia Capital was a nightmare," Axel muttered, his voice thick with exhaustion. "They never know when to stop talking." Ayla swallowed the hard lump forming in her throat. She forced her lungs to take in a breath. She turned away from him and walked into the climate-controlled walk-in closet, carefully hanging the jacket on a cedar hanger. When she walked back into the bedroom, Axel was standing by the edge of the bed. He yanked his silk tie loose with a frustrated sigh and tossed it carelessly onto the Persian rug. He turned his back to her and started unbuttoning his crisp white dress shirt, preparing to head into the master bathroom. The shirt slid off his broad shoulders, dropping to the floor and exposing the tight muscles of his back. Ayla stepped out of the closet, her eyes naturally falling on his left shoulder blade. Her pupils contracted so fast it physically hurt. The air in the room seemed to vanish. Her lungs stopped working. There, stamped vividly across his left shoulder blade, were three dark red, raised scratches. The skin around them was inflamed, the edges slightly broken and bleeding. The spacing between the marks was exactly the width of a woman's fingernails. The downward angle and the sheer force of the cuts made it impossible to be an accidental scrape from gym equipment. Axel turned his head slightly. He caught her staring dead at his back. For a fraction of a second, raw panic flashed in his deep brown eyes. He moved instantly, grabbing a thick white towel from the bench and wrapping it tightly around his upper body, hiding the marks. "I scraped myself on a loose nail in the sauna at the club," Axel said. His voice was perfectly steady, completely natural. Ayla looked at his face. This was the face that had been on the cover of Time magazine, praised for having the most devoted, honest eyes in Silicon Valley. Her stomach violently turned over. Acid rushed up her throat. She didn't scream. She didn't throw anything. Instead, she forced the muscles in her face to stretch into a stiff, unnatural smile. "You should be more careful," Ayla said, her voice sounding like it belonged to someone else. "Go take your shower." Axel nodded, turning and walking into the bathroom. The heavy door clicked shut. The sound of the rain showerhead turning on echoed through the wall. The second the water hit the tiles, Ayla's knees buckled. She collapsed onto the edge of the mattress, her hands gripping the sheets so hard her knuckles turned white. Her eyes darted to the nightstand. Axel's private phone sat face down on the marble surface. Her hand was shaking violently as she reached out and picked it up. The metal felt like ice against her palm. She swiped up on the screen and typed in the four-digit passcode. Their wedding anniversary. The screen shook side to side. Passcode Incorrect. Ayla's heart plummeted into her stomach, hitting her with a wave of physical nausea. He had changed the passcode. A passcode that had been the same for three years. He changed it just a week ago. The rushing water from the bathroom masked the sound of Ayla's heavy, ragged breathing. The perfect illusion of her marriage shattered into a million jagged pieces in her mind. She thought about the countless nights she had stayed awake until 3 AM, drafting flawless PR press releases to build his image as the ultimate family man. A hot, blinding anger suddenly erupted in her chest, instantly burning away the grief. She was being played for a fool. Ayla set the phone back down on the marble nightstand, making sure it was in the exact same position it had been in before. She stood up, her legs no longer shaking. She walked over to her mahogany writing desk and opened the bottom drawer. She pulled out a blank white sticky note and a pen. With steady fingers, she wrote down the phone number of a top-tier divorce attorney she had memorized years ago.