From Trophy Wife to Scientific Queen
My husband Julian celebrated our five-year anniversary by sleeping with his mistress. He thought I was a clueless trophy wife, too dim to notice the vanilla and tuberose scent on his expensive suits. He was wrong. For years, I played Mrs. Vance, hiding my brilliance while Julian claimed my patents.
An anonymous email confirmed his ultimate betrayal: photos of him and Scarlett Kensington in ecstasy. My heart didn't break; it solidified into ice at five years wasted.
I activated "The Protocol" for a new identity and escape countdown. Playing the doting wife, I plotted his downfall, catching him with his mistress selling my work, and publicly snapping his credit card.
His betrayals and stolen work ignited a cold, calculated fury. He had no idea the monster he'd created. I was dismantling his empire.
I shredded his patent papers, stripping him of his ill-gotten gains. With a final tap, I initiated "Identity Erasure." Mrs. Vance was dead. Dr. Evelyn Thorne had just begun her counterattack.
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Chapter 6
In the sanctuary of the restroom stall, Evelyn cleaned herself up. She looked at the jacket hanging on the hook. There was a small smear of blood on the silk lining.
She checked the label. Savile Row. Bespoke. 100% Vicuña Wool. This jacket cost more than her car.
She sighed, defeated. She couldn't just leave it here. She had to clean it. She was a chemist; she knew how to remove protein stains without damaging the fibers.
She wrapped the jacket in a plastic bag she found in the supply closet and put it in her tote bag. She left the building, head down.
When she arrived back at the penthouse, she tried to sneak directly to the laundry room where she kept her specialized solvents.
"Evelyn?"
Julian's voice. He was home early. He was standing in the hallway, holding a glass of scotch.
He looked at her. Then he looked at the tote bag. A sleeve of the navy jacket was sticking out.
"What is that?" he asked.
Evelyn adjusted her grip. "Just dry cleaning."
Julian walked over. He pulled the jacket out of the bag before she could stop him. He held it up. It was massive compared to his frame. He brought it to his nose and sniffed.
It smelled of sandalwood. And underneath that, a faint, metallic tang. Iron.
Julian's face twisted. He didn't identify the blood immediately; his mind went to something else. Roughness. Another man.
"Who is he?" Julian demanded. "You're seeing someone?"
Evelyn laughed. It was a reflex. "You're asking me that? Really?"
Julian grabbed her arm. His fingers dug into her bicep. "I am your husband, Evelyn. You represent me. If you are embarrassing me-"
The pain was sharp. It triggered something primal in her.
Evelyn didn't think. She reacted. She had taken self-defense classes for three years-"cardio kickboxing," she had told Julian.
She twisted her arm, rotating against his thumb, breaking his grip instantly. In the same motion, she shoved him back, creating distance. It wasn't a master martial arts move, but it was effective.
Julian stumbled back, crashing into the hallway console table. A Ming vase wobbled and fell, shattering into a thousand pieces.
Silence followed the crash.
Julian stood there, rubbing his wrist, looking at her with total shock. He had never seen her fight back. He had never seen her as anything other than soft.
"I took a women's safety course at the club," Evelyn lied, her chest heaving. "They taught us how to deal with aggressors."
She picked up Alistair's jacket from where Julian had dropped it.
"Touch me again," she said, her voice low and devoid of emotion, "and I will file a police report. Imagine the headlines, Julian."
She walked past him, stepping over the broken porcelain. She went into the guest bedroom and locked the door. She collapsed on the bed, her hands shaking, not from fear, but from the terrifying realization of how good it felt to hurt him.