My Husband Used College Girls to Steal My Company

A harsh, throbbing ache hammered behind my eyes.

I blinked against the dim light. My head felt stuffed with cotton. The sheets beneath me weren't mine—they were stiff, crisp hotel linen that smelled of bleach.

I looked down. My black cocktail dress was torn at the shoulder, exposing bare skin to the icy air. Dull purple bruises were already blooming across my collarbone and forearms.

My breath caught in my throat. Across the room, a man stood by a dark mahogany bar.

He was in his fifties, tall and broad, wearing a tailored navy suit. His hair was silver at the temples, his face carved from cold stone. He held a crystal tumbler, watching amber scotch swirl against the ice.

He looked over at me. His gray eyes were flat and unblinking. It was the look of a man inspecting an expensive package he had just signed for.

Nathaniel Sullivan.

In that single second, the bottom fell out of my world. The sickening truth hit me like a physical blow.

Kolson hadn't tried to save our marriage. The roses on the counter. The carbonara in the old college bowl. The sweet memories of Rome and the hospital the night Sophie was born.

None of it was love. It was bait. He had drugged his own wife and delivered me to this monster.

My stomach heaved with violent nausea.

"You're awake," Nathaniel said. His voice was smooth, deep, and chillingly casual. "Kolson told me you might be a little restless."

He set his glass down on the counter. He walked toward the bed with slow, unhurried steps. He didn't look excited. He just looked entitled.

Panic flared through my veins, hot and sharp. I scrambled back against the headboard, pulling the torn fabric over my chest.

"Stay away from me," I choked out.

"Don't be difficult, Jolie," he said. He reached out to grab my wrist. "Your husband made a deal. You should learn to accept it."

His fingers clamped around my arm like iron. Pain shot up to my shoulder.

I didn't beg. I didn't cry. A wild, primal fury tore through the fog in my head.

I swung my free hand and raked my fingernails across his cheek. Deep red lines opened on his skin.

Nathaniel let out a sharp hiss. He didn't rage—he just looked annoyed, like a man swatting a mosquito. His heavy palm cracked across my face.

My head snapped sideways. The taste of copper flooded my mouth. My ears rang with a deafening screech.

He lunged forward, pinning my hips to the mattress. But my right hand hit something heavy on the nightstand: a solid brass lamp.

I ripped the cord from the wall and swung with every ounce of strength in my body.

*Crack.*

The metal base smashed into the side of his skull.

Nathaniel grunted in shock. He staggered off the bed, clutching his bleeding temple.

I scrambled to my feet, kicked off my broken heels, and screamed. I screamed until the walls rattled and my vocal cords tore.

Before he could lunge again, a tremendous boom shook the room.

The door frame splintered.

"NYPD! Don't move!"

Two uniformed officers burst into the suite, guns drawn.

Nathaniel froze, blood trickling down his cheek onto his pristine white collar. He straightened his cuffs, his face dropping back into cold arrogance. "Do you have any idea who I am? Call your commissioner."

"Hands behind your back! Now!"

The officers didn't hesitate. They shoved Nathaniel against the dresser and ratcheted steel cuffs around his wrists.

I slid down the wall onto the carpet, trembling so hard my teeth clacked together.

An ambulance ride followed in a blur of sirens and flashing red lights.

In the hospital room, the smell of antiseptic stung my nose. Two plainclothes detectives stood beside my gurney with notepads.

My voice was a rough rasp, but I didn't stop talking. I didn't just tell them about Nathaniel. I told them about Kolson. I gave them the names from his phone. I told them about the encrypted accounts and the twenty-six wire transfers to young college girls.

The two detectives exchanged a long, heavy glance.

"Mrs. Pierce," the older one said quietly, "this isn't just a domestic assault. You just handed us a federal trafficking ring."

Thirty minutes later, the door flew open.

Alina rushed in, her dark coat flying behind her. She took one look at my swollen cheek and torn dress, and a broken sound tore from her throat.

She wrapped her arms around me and pulled me close.

And finally, the wall broke.

I buried my face in Alina's shoulder and sobbed. Ten years of love, trust, and memories shattered into dust, pouring out of me in ragged, ugly gasps.

"Sophie is safe," Alina whispered into my hair, her own tears soaking my hospital gown. "She's at my mom's house. She's asleep. She doesn't know a thing."

I squeezed my eyes shut, letting the grief burn through me until there was nothing left to cry.

When I opened my eyes, the tears were gone. Only cold, sharp iron remained.

I looked down at my left wrist. My fingers curled around the scratched metal face of my father’s watch. The ticking was steady, beating like a war drum against my pulse.

I pulled back from Alina and looked her straight in the eye.

"I'm going to destroy him," I said.

My voice didn't waver.

Kolson Pierce had killed his wife tonight. And in her place, Jolie Matthews was ready for war.