Reborn To Ruin My Cheating Tycoon Husband

Erin emerged from the bathroom twenty minutes later. The steam followed her out, smelling of expensive soap and shampoo. She wore a pair of plain, gray cotton pajamas that covered her from neck to ankle. It was a style he'd never seen her wear, a style he hated. She didn't look at him. Crockett was still standing where she'd left him, his shirt half-unbuttoned, his mind reeling. He watched her walk past the sofa, her bare feet silent on the carpet, and head towards the small kitchenette tucked into an alcove of the sitting area. A smirk touched his lips. So, the ice was beginning to crack. She was going to make him that truffle grilled cheese after all. The thought filled him with a grim satisfaction. He'd let her make it. He'd let her bring it to him. And then he would calmly, methodically, take her apart for the stunt she'd just pulled. But Erin only opened the refrigerator to pull out a bottle of water. She twisted the cap and leaned against the marble island, taking a long, slow sip. She held the bottle with both hands, her gaze fixed on something beyond the windows, completely ignoring his presence. His patience, already worn thin, snapped. He pushed himself off the armchair and strode to the entrance of the kitchenette, blocking her exit. He crossed his arms over his chest, a posture of pure, unadulterated authority. "Are you done?" he asked, his voice dripping with condescension. Erin lowered the water bottle, her eyes finally meeting his. Her gaze drifted down, past his face, to his wrists. "Done?" A small, humorless smile played on her lips. "I'm just thinking that a man who just spent a million dollars at a private Van Cleef & Arpels auction for his mistress probably doesn't need his wife to fix him a sandwich." Crockett's blood ran cold. His jaw tightened. The auction had been discreet, an invitation-only affair. How could she possibly know? Her eyes lifted from his wrist to the diamond cufflinks on his French cuffs. "Those are new. Very nice." Her voice was conversational, almost pleasant. "Delila must be thrilled. A friend in her little circle was kind enough to forward me the screenshot from her private Instagram story three days ago. A beautiful 'anonymous gift' she'd received." She took another sip of water, her eyes never leaving his. "I guess the anonymous gift-giver finally got to see her wear them tonight." The words hit him like a punch to the gut. He instinctively moved his hand to cover the cufflink on his right wrist, a gesture of guilt so blatant it was humiliating. He felt a flush of heat creep up his neck. He had always operated on the assumption that Erin was a beautiful, decorative fool. Someone who read Vogue, not financial reports. Someone who followed gossip about celebrities, not the private social media of her husband's mistress. Rage, hot and sharp, replaced his shock. "Have you been following me?" "I don't need to follow you, Crockett," she said, her voice still unnervingly calm. "The whole world knows you're in love with her. I was just the only one pretending not to see it." That single sentence shattered the carefully constructed facade of their marriage. It tore away the polite fictions he'd used for years. "That's enough!" he snarled, his voice echoing in the quiet room. "Delila and I are just friends! She has BPD, for God's sake. She's sick. I'm taking care of her!" It was his trump card, the excuse that had always worked, the line that always made Erin shrink back in guilt and shame. But this Erin didn't shrink. She just nodded slowly, as if he were discussing a business deal. "I see. Well, a man who has to take care of a sick patient should probably get his rest." She pushed herself off the island and made to walk past him. Her placid acceptance, her refusal to engage in the fight he so desperately wanted, was more infuriating than any tears or accusations. He grabbed her arm, his fingers digging into her skin. "We're not done here." Erin stopped. She looked down at his hand on her arm, then back up at his face. Her expression was one of pure, unadulterated disgust. "What's not clear?" she asked, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. She pulled her arm from his grasp with a surprising strength. "Are you dirty, Crockett? Or are your cufflinks dirty?" She held his gaze, her own eyes like chips of ice. "Don't touch me with the hands you've used to touch her. It makes me sick." "You-!" The insult was so direct, so raw, it stole his breath. A wave of fury, primal and uncontrollable, surged through him. He raised his hand. Erin didn't cower. She didn't even blink. She lifted her chin, her eyes daring him, a silent challenge that was louder than any scream. His hand stopped in mid-air. He stared at her, at this defiant, fearless stranger wearing his wife's face. He had never hit her. He had never needed to. But in that moment, he wanted to. He wanted to shatter that infuriating calm, to see her break, to see the fear back in her eyes. But he knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that if his hand fell, something between them would be broken forever. He slowly lowered his arm, his hand clenching into a fist at his side. He was shaking with rage. "You're becoming irrational," he bit out, the words tasting like acid. "This possessiveness... it's suffocating." He spat the word "possessiveness" like it was a disease. For the first time that night, Erin truly smiled. It was a cold, sharp, terrifying thing that never reached her eyes. "Don't worry," she said softly. "You won't have to suffer it for much longer." And with that, she turned, walked back into the sleeping area, and closed the door. He heard the lock click. Then, the soft, final sound of the security chain sliding into place.