Wife's Revenge on Cheater

I stared at my phone, the harsh blue light illuminating my face in the dim morning light of our bedroom. Three years of marriage, and this was how Ryan chose to commemorate it. The email notification glared back at me, mocking what should have been a day of celebration. "Reservation canceled: Le Bernardin, 8:00 PM." Directly below it sat another message—a forwarded invitation to Amber Walsh's birthday party at Eleven Madison Park. The timestamp showed he'd canceled our anniversary dinner mere minutes after accepting her invitation. My fingers tightened around the phone as I scrolled through the details: "Black tie optional. Gifts welcome." I placed the phone down carefully, like it might shatter under the weight of my barely contained rage. Three years of pretending to be less than I am. Three years of playing the role of the modest marketing coordinator who earned just enough to contribute her "fair share" to this farce of a marriage. Ryan emerged from the bathroom, his $300 haircut still damp, adjusting his Rolex—a watch I knew for a fact he couldn't actually afford.

Chapters

Chapter 1

"Reservation canceled: Le Bernardin, 8:00 PM."

Directly below it sat another message—a forwarded invitation to Amber Walsh's birthday party at Eleven Madison Park. The timestamp showed he'd canceled our anniversary dinner mere minutes after accepting her invitation. My fingers tightened around the phone as I scrolled through the details: "Black tie optional. Gifts welcome."

I placed the phone down carefully, like it might shatter under the weight of my barely contained rage. Three years of pretending to be less than I am. Three years of playing the role of the modest marketing coordinator who earned just enough to contribute her "fair share" to this farce of a marriage.

Ryan emerged from the bathroom, his $300 haircut still damp, adjusting his Rolex—a watch I knew for a fact he couldn't actually afford.

"Morning," he said absently, not bothering to look at me. "I made reservations at Balthazar for brunch. We should leave in twenty minutes."

No mention of our anniversary. No acknowledgment of the canceled dinner. Just another command delivered with the expectation of immediate compliance.

"I saw you canceled Le Bernardin," I said, keeping my voice neutral, a skill I'd perfected in boardrooms long before I met him.

He barely paused as he selected a tie. "Oh, yeah. Something came up with Amber. She's having this birthday thing tonight. I figured we could do our dinner another night."

Another night. As if our anniversary was as interchangeable as a business lunch.

* * *

Balthazar buzzed with the energy of Manhattan's weekend crowd. Ryan ordered a $24 eggs Benedict without consulting the price—a luxury he never extended to me when we dined together. I sipped my coffee, watching him over the rim of my cup.

"So Amber's having her birthday at Eleven Madison Park?" I asked casually. "That seems extravagant for a Tuesday night."

Ryan's face softened at the mention of her name. "She deserves it. She's been going through a rough time lately."

I nodded, as if I didn't know that Amber Walsh's entire existence was one manufactured crisis after another.

"You know," I said, setting down my cup, "if we're being logical about things, maybe I should invite James to dinner tonight instead."

Ryan's fork clattered against his plate. "James? Your coworker?"

"Yes. Since you'll be with Amber, it seems fair. We're all about 50/50, right?" I smiled pleasantly, as if suggesting nothing more controversial than splitting the check.

The transformation was immediate. His face flushed dark red, veins bulging at his temples. "Are you fucking kidding me right now? On our anniversary?"

"I thought our anniversary dinner was postponed," I replied evenly.

"That's different and you know it! Amber is a friend who needs support. Your little suggestion is completely inappropriate." He leaned forward, lowering his voice to a hiss. "Besides, what would James want with someone making forty grand a year? Don't embarrass yourself."

He threw his napkin on the table and stormed out, leaving me alone with the half-eaten brunch and the stares of nearby diners.

If only he knew.

* * *

The doorbell rang at 11:42 PM. I'd been sitting in the dark living room for hours, waiting for Ryan to return from Amber's celebration. When I opened the door, they both stood there—Ryan supporting Amber, who was dramatically clutching at her throat.

"She's having an allergic reaction," Ryan announced, pushing past me. "We need to get her comfortable."

"Shouldn't we go to the emergency room then?" I asked, watching as he guided her to our sofa.

"She's already taken Benadryl. She just needs to rest somewhere quiet." He looked around our apartment with sudden decision. "She should take the bedroom."

"Our bedroom?" I clarified, though I already knew the answer.

"Yes, Sarah, our bedroom. She can't go back to her place in this condition." His tone suggested I was being deliberately obtuse.

Amber looked up at me with wide, watery eyes. "I'm so sorry to impose," she whispered, her voice fragile as spun glass. "The shellfish... I didn't know it was in the sauce."

I stood perfectly still, watching this performance with clinical detachment. Her neck showed no signs of hives. Her breathing was regular, if deliberately labored for effect.

"She'll need something comfortable to sleep in," Ryan continued, already guiding her toward our bedroom. "Give her your silk pajamas—the blue ones."

My pajamas. My bed. My husband.

I wordlessly retrieved the pajamas from my dresser and handed them over, watching as Ryan ushered Amber into our bathroom to change. When he returned to the living room, he had the audacity to look annoyed with me.

"You could be more sympathetic," he muttered. "She's really suffering."

I didn't respond. Instead, I retrieved a blanket from the hall closet and arranged it on the sofa that would be my bed for the night. As I lay there in the darkness, I opened my laptop and found myself staring at Ryan's meticulously maintained expense spreadsheet—every dinner, every movie ticket, every roll of toilet paper documented with obsessive precision.

Three years. Three years of this cold, calculated farce.

I closed the spreadsheet and opened a new document. At the top, I typed: "Marriage Investment Loss Analysis."

It was time to end the charade.

Continue to next part

The cream-colored envelope arrived on a Tuesday morning, slipped under my apartment door like a small, elegant thief. I picked it up from the floor, my fingers brushing against the heavy paper stock, and immediately recognized the Hunt family's embossed crest in the corner. My heart did that familiar, painful skip it always did when anything connected to Maddox crossed my path. I sat at my kitchen counter, coffee cooling beside me, turning the envelope over in my hands. The formal invitation inside was written in calligraphy I didn't need to read to understand. Maddox Hunt's engagement party. Aboard his family's yacht in the Hamptons. This weekend. I pressed my fingertips together, a habit I'd developed as a child when trying to hold myself together. Eight years of loving him in silence, of being his closest friend but never quite his love, had led to this moment.

Billionaire Modern Romance

7.9

Antarctic Triumph over Love

7.9

I stared at my reflection in the car window, barely recognizing the woman looking back at me. Three years of engagement to Ethan had slowly erased the confident environmental scientist I once was, replacing her with this anxious stranger who second-guessed her every move. "Are you coming?" Ethan's impatient voice cut through my thoughts. He stood several feet ahead, not bothering to wait for me, his attention already fixed on his phone. "Yes, sorry," I murmured, hurrying to catch up. The lakeside property came into view, a sprawling modern home overlooking the pristine waters of Lake Washington. Summer sunshine glinted off the surface, but I felt a chill despite the warmth of the day. I hadn't wanted to come to this gathering. These were Ethan's tech industry friends, people who looked through me rather than at me. But refusing would have triggered another of his cold silences, the kind that could stretch for days.

Billionaire Modern Romance

8.3

I Exposed My Husband’s Affair at Our Company Gala

8.3

I came home a day early. The flight from Chicago landed at six-fifteen, and I didn't tell Reid. I thought about it — typed the text, deleted it. I told myself it was because I wanted to surprise him. That was a lie I was still willing to believe on the cab ride home. The penthouse was quiet when I stepped off the elevator. The kind of quiet that has weight to it. I set my carry-on by the door and noticed Reid's jacket on the entryway chair, his keys on the console table. Home, then. I walked toward the bedroom.

Billionaire Modern Romance

9.5

I LEFT MY EX HUSBAND AND MARRIED A BILLIONAIRE

9.5

Elena's world crumbles when she finds out her husband, Alex, has been cheating on her. After confronting him, he doesn't show regret; rather he demands for a divorce and she walks away for good, giving up her marriage and the career she carefully built. To move on, she strikes an unexpected deal: a contract marriage with Max, who turns out to be Alex's past rival. But just as Elena begins to rebuild her life, Alex realizes what he lost-and wants her back. But Elena isn't the same woman he once knew and she is not alone anymore.

Billionaire Modern Romance

7.2

Midas Protocol: Seducing My Rival's Wife

7.2

I sat in the freezing conference room, my knuckles white as I strangled a cheap plastic pen. Outside, Manhattan was weeping in the gray rain, but inside, the air was sterile and dead. I stared at the polished mahogany table, seeing the distorted reflection of a man who hadn't slept in forty-eight hours—a man about to sign his own divorce papers. Across from me, my wife Linda wouldn't even look at me. She was too busy drumming her fingers near a diamond ring that cost more than I had made in the last five years combined. Then the door swung open, and Simon Thorne walked in. The billionaire heir didn't say a word; he just walked behind Linda and placed a heavy, possessive hand on her shoulder, marking her as his. "Let's wrap this up," Simon said, checking his Patek Philippe with the bored tone of a man ordering a coffee he didn't want. Linda finally looked through me like I was a ghost and told me to stop dragging this out. She whispered that I couldn't even afford myself anymore, a physical punch to the gut given I’d lost my job three weeks ago. After I signed, Simon flicked a business card at me, mockingly offering me a job as a doorman for minimum wage. I walked out into the downpour, shivering in a suit I couldn't afford to dry clean. My phone vibrated with a text from my landlord: "Pack your things. Keys by tonight or I’m calling the cops." I stood on the corner of 5th Avenue with exactly $42.18 to my name, watching Simon kiss my wife through the glass wall of the penthouse. I was thirty, homeless, and drowning in a city of lions. I wanted to roar until my throat bled, but I just stood there, a drowned rat in a world of predators. How could I have lost everything so fast? Why was the woman who promised to stay through "for poorer" now leaning into the arms of the man who just humiliated me? Suddenly, my phone screen exploded with a blinding golden light. An app called the Midas Protocol installed itself, declaring poverty a disease and itself the cure. With one tap, a million dollars bypassed a federal hold and hit my account, and a "Nemesis Card" appeared in my digital inventory. I didn't hesitate. I typed Simon Thorne’s name into the vengeance algorithm and hit execute. The game had officially changed.

Billionaire Modern Romance

9.7

Thatcher's Death, My Liberation

9.7

The sound of the workshop door slamming open jolted me from my work. I looked up from the half-finished necklace I'd been crafting, my hands still stained with metal polish. Thatcher stood in the doorway, his tall frame blocking the light from the hallway. His usually immaculate appearance was disheveled—tie loosened, hair slightly unkempt. Something was wrong. "Where is she?" His voice cut through the quiet workshop like a blade. I set down my tools carefully, trying to steady my trembling fingers. "Who?" "Don't play games with me, Rose." He stepped closer, his expensive cologne filling the small space between us. "Liberty. Where is she?" I shook my head, genuinely confused.

Billionaire Mystery Romance

Wife's Revenge on Cheater

Chapter 1

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