11:47 PM.
That was the exact time I realized I was about to fucking die.
Not in some poetic, slow-burning way. Not in a tragic, dramatic movie moment where the camera zooms in and the sad music swells.
No.
This was ugly.
This was brutal.
This was a woman choking on her own mistakes while the people she loved watched her bleed.
And the worst part?
I saw it coming.
Not all at once. No, that would have been too easy. Too merciful.
My death didn't come with a gunshot. Or a car crash. Or some freak accident that would've let the world feel bad for me.
It started with a text message.
Just one.
From an unknown number. Three words.
Check the penthouse.
I was already in bed. Already curled up in silk sheets that smelled like Liam. My husband. My perfect, powerful, lying-fucking-husband.
And I almost ignored it.
Almost.
But something in my gut some deep, sick, awful instinct told me to get up.
So I did.
And that's when I made the dumbest, most pathetic mistake of my life.
I went to find him alone.
I grabbed my keys. Slipped into my Louboutins. Threw my fur coat over the silk nightgown Liam bought me last Christmas because, even in my downfall, I was still a rich bitch.
And then I made the worst decision of my life.
I went to the penthouse.
The elevator ride was suffocating. Every floor that ticked up felt like a countdown to something I wasn't ready to see.
Check the penthouse.
Why?
Liam was supposed to be out of town. A "business trip" in Milan. Meetings. Investors. The same bullshit he always fed me with a straight face.
But I fucking knew and still, I held on to that last, desperate, humiliating shred of hope.
That maybe, just maybe, I was wrong.
That maybe my husband wasn't the monster my gut was screaming he was.
Ding.
The elevator doors slid open.
And in that moment?
I became a ghost.
The penthouse smelled like expensive perfume. Sweet. Floral. Not mine.
I stepped inside, my heels clicking against the marble, my stomach twisting so hard I thought I might be sick.
And then I heard it.
A moan.
His name.
My fucking husband's name.
Honestly her moan wasn't as hot as mine... seriously.
Okay, I will be serious now (:
I didn't think. Didn't breathe. Didn't hesitate.
I followed the sound, my blood roaring in my ears.
Bedroom door? Wide open.
And there they were.
Liam Whitmore. My husband. The love of my life.
Isla Davenport. My best friend. The bitch I would have died for.
Their bodies tangled in our bed.
Our fucking bed, Now that I think of it that bed was fucking expensive fuck
I laughed.
Not a normal laugh. Not a bitter, betrayed, I'm-so-fucking-hurt laugh.
No.
It was ugly. Hysterical. Broken.
The kind of laugh that bubbles up when your entire world has just gone up in flames and all you can do is watch it burn.
"Hey, Val?" I repeated, tilting my head, staring at the bitch in my bed like she had just grown two fucking heads.
Isla had the nerve to smile.
Like I was the idiot. Like I was supposed to already know my husband was fucking her.
And Liam?
He didn't move. Didn't pull away. Just sat there, naked and relaxed, one arm resting against the headboard like he was so goddamn comfortable in his betrayal.
Like he had been waiting for this moment.
I took a step forward, my heels echoing through the silent room.
"You better start talking," I said slowly, voice so calm it scared even me.
Isla shifted, adjusting the sheet over her chest like modesty mattered now.
Liam sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Val, don't do this."
Don't do this?
I let out a breathy, humorless laugh. "Oh, sweetheart, I'm just getting started."
And then...
A voice behind me.
"Actually, you're done."
I turned and there she was.
Camilla Devereaux.
My step-sister.
Draped in designer, standing in the doorway, watching me fall apart with a fucking smirk on her lips.
No. No, no, no.
Not her.
Not her.
I had already lost Liam. Already lost Isla. But Camilla, she was family.
She was supposed to be on my side.
I shook my head. "Cam…?"
She tsked, stepping into the room, red-bottom stilettos clicking against my bedroom floor. "God, Val, you really are pathetic."
My throat went dry. "You… you sent the message."
Her lips curled. "Of course I did."
The floor disappeared beneath me.
This wasn't just an affair. This wasn't just betrayal.
This was an ambush.
A perfectly orchestrated, ruthless fucking takedown.
And the worst part?
I never even saw it coming.
I had been fighting so hard to hold on to the idea of my marriage that I never stopped to realize…
They had been planning my destruction all along.
And then Liam delivered the final blow.
His voice? Calm. Cold. Final.
"Should've just signed the damn papers, sweetheart."
That's when I knew
This wasn't just cheating.
This was an execution and I was already dead.
My death made me learn a fucking lesson, trust is a fucking scum.