Make Him Pay: My Ultimate Revenge

The morning sun sliced through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of the Hamptons villa. The bright light stabbed directly into Cristofer Clarke's eyelids. He groaned. He rolled over on the massive leather bed. A vicious hangover pounded against the inside of his skull like a jackhammer. He slowly opened his eyes. He reached his hand out across the mattress. The silk sheets were cold. Empty. He frowned. His memory of last night was completely fragmented. He remembered drinking heavily with some investors after the charity gala. Then Arielle had offered to drive him to the villa so he wouldn't have to face the paparazzi in the city. He sat up quickly and threw off the duvet. He was still wearing his suit trousers. There were no signs of intimacy. He let out a slow breath, his chest relaxing slightly. Cristofer reached blindly toward the marble nightstand. He wanted to check his phone. He needed to see if Corrine had texted him to check in. His hand swiped across the cold marble. Nothing. He frowned deeper. He lifted the pillows. He leaned over and checked the floor under the bed. The private phone-the one with the dedicated line for his wife-was gone. A surge of irritation flared in his chest. He rubbed his temples, stood up, and walked out of the bedroom. He walked down the spiral glass staircase toward the open-concept kitchen. The smell of frying bacon filled the air. Arielle Orozco stood by the stove. She was wearing one of his oversized white dress shirts. Her bare legs shifted as she hummed a soft tune. She heard his footsteps and turned around. A flawless, sweet smile spread across her face. She picked up a mug of black coffee and walked toward him. "Morning, sleepyhead. I made this for your hangover," she said softly. Cristofer didn't take the mug. His eyes swept over the shirt she was wearing, his expression turning cold. "Where is my phone?" he demanded, his voice thick with sleep and annoyance. A flash of panic crossed Arielle's eyes, but it vanished instantly. She replaced it with a look of pure, innocent guilt. She bit her lower lip. "Last night, you were throwing up over the edge of the master balcony. I tried to pull you back, and your arm jerked. You accidentally knocked your phone over the railing. It fell three stories and smashed directly onto the stone patio below. The screen was completely shattered, and the internal battery casing split. It wouldn't even turn on." Cristofer's jaw locked. His left hand instinctively reached for the Patek Philippe watch on his wrist, twisting the dial. That phone had highly classified financial documents on it. More importantly, it was the only way Corrine could reach him. "I already took care of it," Arielle added quickly, stepping closer. "I had my assistant drive it straight to the Apple IT department in the city. They promised to recover the data. Nothing will leak." Cristofer let go of his watch. He ran a hand through his messy hair. He didn't have the energy to argue. He walked past her into the living room. He picked up the landline phone from the side table and dialed his Manhattan penthouse. It rang six times before Patty Doyle, the senior nanny, picked up. She sounded out of breath. "Put Corrine on the phone," Cristofer ordered. There was a long silence on the other end. "Sir," Patty stammered. "Mrs. Ratcliff... she left the apartment late last night. She hasn't come back." Cristofer's stomach dropped. His heart skipped a beat. But the brief moment of panic was quickly swallowed by a rising tide of anger. "She is nine months pregnant," Cristofer yelled into the receiver. "Where the hell did she go in the middle of the night?" "I don't know!" Patty cried, her voice trembling. "She's been acting so strange lately. She doesn't tell me anything. Maybe she went to a friend's house?" Cristofer slammed the phone down onto the receiver. He paced across the living room. He knew exactly what this was. Corrine must have seen some garbage gossip blog online. She was throwing a tantrum. She was using this childish "running away" tactic to force him to come crawling back and explain himself. It was pathetic. He pulled his secondary work phone from his suit jacket pocket. He dialed his chief of staff, Cole Bishop. "Cole," Cristofer barked the moment the line connected. "Pull the credit card records for Corrine. All of them. And check the garage security footage at the penthouse." "Right away, sir," Cole said. "Send a security detail to those little art galleries and coffee shops she likes," Cristofer continued, his tone turning ruthless. "When you find her, put her in a car and take her straight back to the apartment." He hung up the phone. He walked back into the kitchen and grabbed the mug of black coffee from the counter. He drank it in one gulp. His eyes were hard, filled with the absolute arrogance of a man who controlled everything. Arielle stood behind the kitchen island. She watched him issue the orders. When he turned his back to put the mug in the sink, the sweet smile melted off her face. The corners of her mouth curled up into a wicked, victorious smirk.