“They have nothing, James.”
The voice of James’s attorney crackled through the speaker of his phone, offering the exact reassurance James needed to hear. “Olivia and her lawyer are making a lot of noise with this alienation of affection countersuit, but noise isn't evidence. They have suspicions. They have office gossip, travel overlaps, and wild accusations. But so far, they have produced absolutely zero direct, admissible proof of an affair. Just keep your head down, avoid Amanda publicly, and stop creating scenes.”
James murmured an agreement and ended the call. He leaned back in his leather office chair, a deep, ugly smugness settling into his chest.
He had covered his tracks. He and Amanda had been meticulously, flawlessly careful. There was no obvious hotel trail booked under their own names. There were no careless public displays of affection. They had never sent open, explicit text messages that fully spelled out the affair on their primary devices. There was absolutely no easy, packaged proof that Olivia could hand to a judge.
He smiled to himself, imagining the impending look on his wife’s face. He envisioned Olivia standing in a deposition, forced to realize she had overplayed her hand. She would behumiliated when everyone saw she couldn't prove a single thing. She would look exactly like the unstable, vindictive woman who ran to her best friend, falsely accused her husband, sued her husband's coworker, and destroyed her own life for nothing.
James didn't feel a shred of regret for what he had done to her. He only thought about winning.
***
The ice clinked in James's scotch glass as he surveyed the upscale hotel bar. He had been staying there for weeks, living out of suitcases since his house had been broken into, and the feeling of having no control over his own life was eating away at his nerves. He needed a distraction. He needed something to make him feel like the man he used to be: in control, desired, and powerful.
That was when he spotted her.
She was sitting a few stools down, swirling the stem of a martini glass. She was blonde, wearing a well-tailored red dress, and exuded an elegant boredom that James knew exactly how to shatter. He smoothed the jacket of his suit, picked up his glass, and walked over to her, sliding onto the empty stool next to her.
"It's a waste for a woman like you to be drinking alone on a Tuesday night," James said, his voice slipping into that smooth, confident tone he had perfected over the years.
The woman turned her head, sizing him up from head to toe. An approving smile spread across her red lips. "Maybe I was just waiting for someone who had the nerve to keep me company."
"Then I got here just in time. I'm James."
"Vanessa," she replied, crossing her legs in a calculated move. "You look like you're running from something, James. Far too tense for someone staying at a five-star hotel."
James chuckled, leaning against the counter to close the distance between them. "Just an exhausting renovation at my place. Had to hole up here for a bit. But I must admit, the view at the bar just made up for any headache."
The flirting flowed seamlessly. James leaned into his successful, mysterious executive charm. His ego began to swell again with every smile she gave him, every time she casually touched his arm while laughing at something he said. It was easy. It was instinctive. He still had it.
After the second round of drinks, James dropped his voice to a whisper, leaning close to her ear. Her perfume was sweet and inviting.
"You know what, Vanessa? This bar is getting way too loud. I have a much better bottle of wine in my suite upstairs. And a view of the city you really ought to see."
Vanessa bit her lower lip, her eyes gleaming with malice. She didn't hesitate. "Lead the way."
They barely waited for the elevator doors to slide shut. James pressed her against the mirrored wall of the cabin, capturing her mouth in an aggressive, urgent kiss. Vanessa groaned, her hands sliding inside his jacket, pulling him closer. Adrenaline ran hot through James's veins. He was the man in control again.
They stumbled out into the tenth-floor hallway, stifling laughs as they kissed, bumping against the walls. James fumbled with the keycard for a second before the green light flashed.
He pushed the door open, and they tumbled into the darkened room. James kicked the door shut behind them. He shed his jacket and tossed it onto a random armchair. Vanessa was breathless, her eyes full of desire as she pushed him back, guiding him to sit on the edge of the king-size bed.
"Let me," Vanessa whispered, her eyes locked onto his.
She knelt on the thick carpet between James's legs. Her deft hands went straight for his belt, undoing the buckle with a metallic click and tugging his zipper down.
James threw his head back, closing his eyes, ready to taste victory and the release of tension from weeks of humiliation. His mind was in it. He wanted this.
But when he opened his eyes and looked down, his triumph evaporated. He was entirely limp. Vanessa kept working her hands, putting in the effort, but there was no reaction. A sickening wave of panic washed over him. His mind was racing, craving the release, demanding it, but his body stubbornly refused to cooperate. Something was terribly wrong. And then, it finally hit him.
The position. The angle Vanessa was kneeling at. The way she looked up. Everything was an exact, sickening carbon copy of what had happened days ago in Amanda's living room.
Like a blinding flash, James's mind replaced Vanessa's face. He didn't see the woman from the bar. He saw the wig slipping. He saw Amanda's bald, red, patchy, diseased-looking scalp exposed to the light.
James's stomach churned. A cold wave of revulsion washed over him.
Vanessa tried working with her hands. She used her mouth. She put effort into it, but there was no reaction whatsoever. He was dead to it.
