I learned early that beauty was currency. That men were stupid. That the right smile and the right dress could open doors that hard work never would.
Alexander Banks was my golden ticket.
I met him at a charity gala when I was twenty-two and decided that he was going to be my man. I made myself into exactly what he needed—soft, supportive, maternal. The perfect daughter-in-law for his mother Rita to approve of. The perfect trophy wife to parade at business functions.
He never knew the real me. None of them did.
The marriage was transactional from the start. He got a beautiful wife who made him look good and kept his house in order. I got access to the Banks fortune and a platform to build something of my own.
Mayor of Washington DC. A position I’d held for nearly two decades now, through strategic alliances and creative redistricting and the kind of backroom deals that would make a prosecutor salivate.
Contractors who wanted city bids knew to come to me first. A little donation here, a little kickback there, and suddenly their permits sailed through approval while their competitors got buried in red tape. I’d made millions that way—moneyAlexander never knew about, funneled into accounts he couldn’t touch.
And my sons? My precious boys who thought they’d built their empire all on their own?
Every permit. Every license. Every zoning approval that Banks Reserve ever needed had crossed my desk first. I’d let them think they were self-made, but the truth was I held the strings. One phone call and I could bury their little spirits company in regulatory hell. They needed me more than they knew.
Not that they appreciated it. Not that any of them ever appreciated anything I did.
Alexander certainly hadn’t.
The affairs startedthree years into our marriage.
His first, not mine. Some young thing from his office who thought she was special. I found out, confronted him, and he had the audacity to shrug. Like it was nothing. Like I was supposed to accept it as part of the deal.
So I got my own. A personal trainer with abs you could grate cheese on and no ambition beyond his next workout. Meaningless. Physical. Revenge.
We settled into a pattern after that. He had his women. I had my men. We smiled for the cameras and slept in separate bedrooms and maintained the illusion of a perfect marriage for the sake of appearances.
Then Tessa King happened.
I’ll never forget the day I found out. A credit card statement. A jewelry store I’d never been to. A receipt for a diamond bracelet that damn sure wasn’t on my wrist.
I did my research. Tessa King—wife of Silas King, mother of two boys. Beautiful. Wealthy. Bored. The kind of woman who had it all, yet that wasn’t enough for her.
And she was pregnant with Alexander’s child.
That I could not allow.
Divorce wasn’t an option. The prenup was airtight—I’d get nothing. And I’d worked too hard, sacrificed too much, to walk away empty-handed.
So I made a different kind of deal.
Silas King was a proud man. The kind of man who would rather die than be publicly humiliated. When I approached him with proof of his wife’s affair—complete with photographs, hotel receipts, and a paternity test I’d bribed a lab tech to obtain—he didn’t cry. Didn’t rage. Just went very, very quiet.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“The same thing you want. For this problem to go away.”
I gave him Alexander’s schedule. His travel itinerary. The make and model of his car. Even had a copy of the key made from the spare Alexander kept in his desk drawer.
Silas was a boss and ran an entire empire up in New York. He knew how to make a death look like an accident.
Three weeks later, Alexander Banks lost control of his vehicle on a winding road. Crashed through a guardrail. Died on impact.
I wore black to the funeral. Cried on cue. Played the grieving widow so well that Rita—that old bat who’d never liked me—actually held my hand during the service.
Silas and I never spoke again. Didn’t need to. We both got what we wanted. He got revenge on the woman who’d betrayed him. I got freedom—and a fortune.
