Introduction

My husband, Ethan Cole, was New York' s legal golden boy-revered for his legal prowess and, more famously, for his legendary adoration of his wife, Sarah Miller.

"My North Star" tattooed over his heart, cross-country flights for a few hours with me; I believed this perfect fairytale for years.

Then, the crash. Arriving at his office to surprise him, I overheard his junior associates' crude jokes: "Boss is off to Napa with Jessica Vance for a 'client retreat'." Napa? He'd texted "Chicago deposition."

My world tipped.

The video landed, sent by Jessica: her, tied with Ethan' s silk tie, his face consumed by a desire I hadn't witnessed in years.

It plummeted deeper.

That night, he drugged my tea.

Then, he brought her into our bed, right beside me, believing I was out cold.

Her moans, his rough whispers, Jessica' s sweat-damp hair brushing my cheek-the ultimate, sickening violation.

The man who once cooked me gourmet breakfasts became a depraved stranger, brazenly flaunting his infidelity inches from me.

How could he?

My reflection showed tear-streaked eyes, but pain became icy resolve.

No screaming. No breakdowns.

A chillingly precise plan formed.

I took a burner phone, texting him-my husband, the famed attorney-as an anonymous "Ms. Evans": "My husband is cheating with his assistant. What should I do?"

His reply, professional and prompt: "Secure all evidence of his infidelity. Bring it to me."

So, I did.

I formally retained Ethan Cole to handle my divorce. Game on.