The Billionaire's Cold And Bitter Betrayal

The guest room was sterile. It smelled of lavender detergent and disuse. Anjanette lay on top of the duvet, staring at the ceiling. The silence of the house was oppressive.

She couldn't sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the plane going down. Then she saw Adam's face, cool and dismissive.

She needed to know. She needed to see it one last time, to burn the bridge so thoroughly that she could never turn back.

She got up. She went to the closet where she kept her special clothes. The ones she rarely wore because Adam preferred her in modest, elegant neutrals. She pulled out a silk nightgown, a deep crimson that looked like spilled wine.

She put it on. It skimmed her body, highlighting curves Adam usually ignored.

She walked down the dark hallway to the master bedroom.

She pushed the door open.

Adam was just coming out of the ensuite bathroom. He had a towel wrapped low around his hips. His hair was damp. Drops of water ran down his chest.

He stopped when he saw her. His eyes narrowed.

I told you I was tired, he said.

Anjanette walked toward him. She didn't say a word. She moved with a slow, predatory grace that was entirely foreign to the dutiful wife he knew.

She stopped inches from him. She reached out and placed her palm flat against his bare chest, right over his heart.

It was beating slow and steady. No guilt. No anxiety.

Adam looked down at her hand, then up at her face. He looked confused, and then, slowly, disgusted.

What are you doing? he asked.

Anjanette trailed her fingers down his sternum. You said you were tired. But you didn't look tired at the clinic.

Adam grabbed her wrist. His grip was hard, bruising.

Stop it, he hissed. You look desperate. It's pathetic.

Pathetic? she whispered. Or inconvenient?

She stepped closer, pressing her body against his. Does she do this better than me? Is that it? Or is it just because she's weak, and that makes you feel like a man?

Adam shoved her.

It wasn't a gentle push. He put his hands on her shoulders and threw her back.

Anjanette stumbled. Her heel caught on the edge of the rug. She fell backward, crashing into the antique vanity table.

Perfume bottles rattled and tipped over. A heavy crystal flask of Chanel No. 5 shattered on the hardwood floor.

The scent was instantaneous-thick, floral, and suffocating.

Anjanette sat amidst the broken glass. A sharp shard had sliced into the sole of her foot. She felt the warm trickle of blood.

Adam stood over her, breathing hard. He didn't look concerned. He looked revulsed.

Look at you, he sneered. Groveling for attention. It's disgusting, Anjanette. You're acting like a common whore.

Anjanette looked up at him. The pain in her foot was sharp and grounding. It cleared the fog in her brain.

She started to laugh.

It began as a low chuckle and rose to a chilling sound that made Adam take a half-step back.

You're right, she said, pushing herself up. She ignored the glass biting into her skin. It is disgusting.

She stood tall, the red silk gown flowing around her like armor. Blood left dark, wet footprints on the pale rug.

She looked him in the eye.

Thank you, Adam.

For what? he asked, wary now.

For making this easy.

She turned and walked out of the room. She didn't limp, but every step sent a fresh spike of agony up her leg, a pain she welcomed, using it to cauterize the wound in her heart.

She went back to the guest room. She went into the bathroom and sat on the edge of the tub. She found a first-aid kit under the sink, her movements precise and detached. She pulled the largest glass shard out of her foot with tweezers, watching the blood flow into the drain with a strange sense of calm. She cleaned the wound with antiseptic that stung like fire, then bandaged it tightly, the pressure a dull, comforting ache.

Then she reached under the bed and pulled out a battered suitcase. It was the one she had brought with her when she moved in three years ago.

She opened it. It was empty.

It wouldn't be for long.