Queen Of His Twisted Betrayal
My husband, Cameron, cheated on me with his intern, Cara. After months of begging, I gave my childhood sweetheart a second chance, but the trust was gone.
One night, after a fight, he stormed out. I watched on a hidden dashcam as he drove straight to her apartment, the sounds of their passion echoing through the car's speakers, a soundtrack to my despair.
The next day, I found them kissing in our foyer. In a blind rage, I attacked Cara. Cameron shoved me to protect her, and my head slammed against the wall, splitting open. As blood streamed down my face, he cradled Cara, murmuring, "Are you okay?"
At the hospital, his mother arrived, horrified. "She's pregnant with another man's child, and she's trying to trap you!" she screamed at Cameron.
But he only had eyes for his mistress. He pushed past me, sending me sprawling to the floor, and rushed to Cara's side after she faked a medical emergency. He didn't even look back.
Later, he returned, his eyes cold. "I can't let Cara go," he said. "You'll still be my wife. My queen. Just... allow me this one small indulgence."
The audacity was breathtaking. He wanted me, his wife, to accept his mistress. But his arrogance didn't stop there. When Cara went missing, he accused me of harming her. He dragged me from my hospital bed, held a knife to my arm, and sliced my skin. "Tell me where she is," he hissed, his face twisted with madness, "or I'll make you."
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Chapter 3
Audrey POV:
Cameron and I were children once, running barefoot through the summer grass, our laughter echoing through our childhood homes which were conveniently next door. He was always there, a steady presence through scraped knees and teenage dramas. He was my protector, my confidant, my first crush, my best friend, my rock.
I remember the day I fell off my bike, my knee gushing blood, how he scooped me up, his own face pale with fear, carrying me all the way home. He got a nasty cut on his arm that day, protecting me from the jagged edge of the sidewalk. He never complained. He just held me, murmuring reassurances until my tears stopped.
He was my past, present, and future. My brother, my lover, my husband, my soulmate. Or so I thought.
How could someone who was all those things, who knew me better than anyone, change so completely? How could he betray the very foundation of our shared history for a fleeting, sordid affair? The question gnawed at me, a relentless, burning ache.
The first rays of dawn painted the sky in hues of soft pink and orange, but the light brought no warmth to my numb limbs. My body, stiff and heavy, moved on autopilot. I walked to my study, the room filled with the blueprints of my architectural dreams, dreams that now felt hollow and meaningless.
From a locked drawer, I retrieved the document. The postnuptial agreement. I had insisted on it after the first time I suspected something was off, a gut feeling I couldn't ignore. It was a safeguard, a desperate attempt to protect myself from a betrayal I subconsciously knew was coming. It stated, in no uncertain terms, that if he ever cheated again, all marital assets, including his now-thriving art business, would revert to me.
I had hoped it would be a deterrent, a boundary he wouldn't dare cross. But love, or rather, the lack of it, seemed to laugh in the face of legal contracts. No piece of paper, no clause, no penalty could stop a heart from wandering, from breaking. The cruel irony was not lost on me. I had tried to protect myself from his infidelity with a legal document, but I failed to protect my heart.