Chapter 4

Ainsley POV

Sleep was a ghost I couldn't catch.

I spent the night in the guest room, staring blindly at the ceiling.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Damian shielding her.

I saw the blood on his cheek.

I heard Casey's voice.

Super fertility.

It gnawed at me.

It was a parasite burrowing into my brain, eating away at my logic.

At 6:00 AM, my phone buzzed against the nightstand.

It was a text from Damian.

I'm staying at a hotel. Casey needed support. Her son is very ill. Don't contact me until you calm down.

The audacity was breathtaking.

He was gaslighting me via text message.

He was framing his adultery as a humanitarian mission.

I didn't reply.

I opened the banking app on my tablet with cold, steady fingers.

I froze his personal accounts.

I cancelled his credit cards.

Specifically the ones paid by the Pierce holding company.

Then I logged into the dealership portal and reported his Porsche as stolen.

Technically, the lease was in my name.

If he drove it past a police scanner, he would be pulled over at gunpoint.

A small, petty smile touched my lips.

Then I went to social media.

I had never looked at Casey's profile before.

I was above that.

But now, I was in the mud.

I found her easily.

Her profile was public.

Of course it was.

She wanted to be seen.

I scrolled past photos of greasy food and selfies with filters that made her eyes look like alien insects.

And then I saw it.

A video posted two days ago.

It was Damian.

He was in a backyard-her backyard.

He was pushing a swing.

A little boy was laughing.

The caption read: Real Dads step up. So grateful for this man.

The boy looked exactly like him.

Same dark hair.

Same soft, weak chin.

I felt sick.

I felt like I was falling through the floor.

My phone rang, shattering the silence.

It was Graham.

"Come to the office," he said.

"I have the file."

Thirty minutes later, I was walking into the boardroom of the Pierce headquarters.

It was a fortress of glass and steel in the financial district.

Graham was sitting at the head of the table.

He looked like a mountain in a suit.

He didn't smile when I walked in.

He slid a thick manila folder across the polished wood.

"It's worse than we thought," he said.

I sat down.

I opened the folder.

The first photo made my breath hitch.

It was Damian and Casey.

But they looked younger.

Much younger.

The timestamp was five years ago.

Three months before our wedding.

They were at a convention.

She was dressed in some skimpy anime costume.

He was dressed as the matching hero.

His arm was slung possessively around her waist.

"They knew each other," I whispered.

Graham nodded.

"They met online. Gaming forums. They've been together since before he met you."

I flipped the page.

Bank statements.

Transfers from our joint account to a shell company called "Valdez Heavy Industries."

It was a joke.

A sick joke.

He had been funneling money to her for years.

Hundreds of thousands of dollars.

My money.

My father's money.

I turned the page again.

Medical records.

I stopped breathing.

Damian Hicks.

Vasectomy.

Dated six months before we started trying for a baby.

The room spun.

He wasn't infertile.

He had sterilized himself.

He had let me undergo invasive surgeries.

He had let me take hormones that messed with my mind and body.

He had watched me cry over negative tests every single month.

And he knew.

He knew the whole time.

"He did it on purpose," Graham said softly.

"He didn't want a Pierce heir. He wanted to use your money to raise his kids with her."

I closed the folder.

My hands were shaking.

But not with sadness.

Grief was warm; this was cold.

This was lethal rage.

I stood up.

"Where is he today?" I asked.

Graham checked his watch.

"He's at the hospital. The Board Meeting is in an hour. He's the Keynote Speaker. He's presenting his research on... ethical medical practices."

I laughed.

It was a hollow, jagged sound that made Graham flinch.

Ethical medical practices.

I smoothed my skirt.

I checked my reflection in the glass wall.

I looked perfect.

I looked like a queen.

"Get the car, Graham," I said.

I picked up the folder.

"I'm going to crash the party."