Chapter 1

My marriage was perfect. I was pregnant with our first child, and my husband, Andre, worshipped the ground I walked on. Or so I thought.

The dream shattered when he whispered another woman's name against my skin in the dark. It was Kaliyah, the young associate from my firm whom I had personally mentored.

He swore it was a mistake, but his lies spiraled as Kaliyah's schemes grew more vicious. He drugged me, locked me in my studio, and caused a fall that sent me to the hospital.

But his ultimate betrayal came after Kaliyah staged a fake car accident and blamed me.

Andre dragged me out of my car by my hair and slapped me across the face. He then forced a nurse to take my blood for his mistress-a transfusion she didn't even need.

He held me down as I began to hemorrhage, leaving me to die while he rushed to her side. He sacrificed our child, who now suffers from irreversible brain damage because of his choice.

The man I loved was gone, replaced by a monster who left me for dead.

Lying in that hospital bed, I made two calls. The first was to my lawyer.

"Activate the infidelity clause in our prenup. I want him left with nothing."

The second was to Jude Gates, the man who had loved me silently for ten years.

"Jude," I said, my voice cold as ice. "I need your help to destroy my husband."

Chapter 1

Haven Shelton POV:

The first sign my marriage was over wasn't a lipstick stain or a suspicious text message; it was a name whispered against my skin in the dark, and it wasn't mine.

For weeks, Andre had been distant. He' d been working late, consumed by a merger that was, in his words, "a total beast." When he was home, he' d watch old videos of me on his phone-videos from our honeymoon, from before my belly had swelled with our child, before my body had changed into something I barely recognized myself. He' d said it was because the doctor advised against intimacy in the first trimester, and he missed me. I believed him. I always believed him.

Tonight, I wanted to close that distance. I wanted to feel his hands on me, not just see his eyes on a screen. I initiated it, my movements slow and deliberate, trying to show him that I was still the woman in those videos, just with a new, precious curve to my stomach.

He responded with an unnerving urgency, a hunger that felt less like passion and more like desperation. His hands moved over me with a familiarity that was suddenly foreign, his touch both intimate and impersonal.

"I love this little beauty mark right here," he murmured, his lips tracing a path along my collarbone.

I froze. "Andre, I don't have a beauty mark there."

He didn't stop. "Of course you do. I kiss it every night." He pressed his lips to the spot again, insistent. "My favorite one."

A cold dread began to seep into my bones, a chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. He was wrong. He was so sure, yet so completely wrong. It was a detail a husband of five years shouldn't get wrong. Not a husband who claimed to worship every inch of my body.

"Andre," I whispered, my voice trembling slightly. "Look at me. Do you even know who I am?"

His movements stilled. For a moment, there was only the sound of our breathing in the silent room. Then, he leaned in, his voice thick with a tenderness that wasn't meant for me.

"Of course I do, my sweet Kaliyah."

The name struck me with the force of a physical blow. My breath hitched in my throat. The world tilted on its axis, sound fading into a low hum in my ears. He said it again, a soft, loving sigh. "Kaliyah."

A wave of nausea and revulsion washed over me. My hands flew to his chest and shoved, hard. He was caught off guard, his body tumbling backward off the bed with a sickening thud as his head hit the sharp corner of the nightstand.

A sharp, cramping pain shot through my abdomen. I gasped, curling into myself, the betrayal a poison spreading through my veins.

Kaliyah.

Kaliyah Cooley. The junior associate from my firm. The brilliant, doe-eyed girl who had found the critical error in the blueprints for the Beaumont Tower project, saving my career from imploding just three months ago. Andre had insisted on "mentoring" her as a personal thank you, a way of repaying the debt he felt she was owed on my behalf. He bought her a new car, paid off her student loans, gestures I'd seen as generous, if a little excessive.

How had I been so blind? How had I mistaken a viper for a savior?

The coldness that started in my bones now reached my heart, encasing it in ice.

His phone, which had fallen from the nightstand, began to ring. It was his own number calling. Confused, I realized it must be connected to the car. He must have hit the emergency button. I watched, paralyzed, as he groaned and fumbled for the device.

"Hello?" he rasped, his voice dazed.

"Mr. Nichols, this is OnStar. We received a crash notification. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," he mumbled. "Just... fell out of bed. Hit my head."

"Is there anyone with you? Is your wife, Mrs. Shelton, there?"

A pause. Then his voice cleared, becoming the smooth, concerned tone I knew so well. "No, she's... she's at her mother's tonight. I'm alone." He was lying. Lying to a stranger about me being right here. "Can you... can you call her for me? I don't want to worry her, but I want to hear her voice."

He recited my number, and a moment later, my own phone lit up on the bedside table. I stared at it, my heart hammering against my ribs. I let it go to voicemail.

He spoke into his phone again, his voice laced with manufactured worry. "She didn't answer. She must be asleep. She needs her rest, especially now. Please, don't call again. I don't want to wake her."

He ended the call and slowly sat up, rubbing the back of his head. He looked around the dark room, his eyes unfocused. He didn't see me.

Then he picked up his phone and dialed. My phone lit up again. This time, I answered, my voice a dead, flat thing.

"Haven?"

"I'm here."

"Oh, thank god," he breathed, a wave of relief in his voice. "Baby, are you okay? I had a bad dream and woke up on the floor. My head is killing me."

I was in the security office of Kaliyah Cooley's apartment building. I had driven here in a blind panic, my mind a maelstrom of shock and pain. A discreet call to a security contact I'd used for corporate projects had given me access to the lobby feed. I was watching him now, on a grainy monitor, as he paced our bedroom, his hand pressed to his head.

"I'm fine," I said, my voice hollow. "Just getting some air."

"You shouldn't be out this late," he chided gently. The perfect, caring husband. "Is the baby okay? Did you take your prenatal vitamins? Remember what Dr. Evans said about your iron levels. Don't forget to drink the soup I left for you in the fridge."

The meticulous care, the flawless performance of devotion he had perfected over the years, now felt like a cruel mockery. He had loved me, I knew he had. He had held me through miscarriages, celebrated my triumphs, and kissed my tears away. He was the man who kept a spare tin of my favorite expensive tea in his office, just in case I had a bad day.

That man was a ghost. Or maybe he'd never existed at all.

"Andre," I asked, the words tearing from my throat. "Do you still love me?"

"What kind of question is that?" he chuckled, the sound grating on my raw nerves. "Of course I love you. More than anything in the world. I was just thinking about you. I miss you so much it hurts. I can't wait for you to come home."

As he spoke those words, the lobby elevator on my monitor dinged open. Kaliyah Cooley stepped out. She was on her phone, a bright, triumphant smile on her face.

"I miss you too, Andre," she cooed into her phone, her voice audible even through the monitor's cheap speaker. "I'm almost home."

On my phone, Andre's voice was a warm caress. "I'll be waiting, baby. I love you."

"I love you too," I whispered back, my eyes locked on the screen.

He hung up.

On the monitor, I watched him put his phone in his pocket. I saw Kaliyah hang up her own call. She walked across the lobby and out the front doors. A moment later, Andre's black sedan pulled up to the curb. She slid into the passenger seat without hesitation. The car sped away.

I didn't need to guess where they were going. Our home. My bed.

A single, guttural sob escaped my lips, a sound of pure agony. My perfect marriage, my carefully constructed life, had been a lie. A beautiful, intricate, devastating lie. I remembered the way he was always so careful with me, so tender, almost reverent in our lovemaking, especially after I became pregnant. He treated me like a fragile piece of art.

Now I knew why. He was saving his real passion, his raw, unrestrained desire, for her.

My phone buzzed with a notification. It was from the baby monitor app, the one connected to the camera in our bedroom. An app he had insisted we install. I opened it.

The image was crystal clear. Andre was pulling Kaliyah into the room, their mouths already locked together. I heard her laugh, a sound like shattering glass. "Is your precious Haven asleep at her mommy's?"

"Of course," Andre's voice was rough, hungry. "She's so naive. She believes everything I say."

"Aren't you worried she'll find out?" Kaliyah asked, her hands unbuttoning his shirt.

"Never," he said with chilling certainty. "And even if she did, what would she do? She's pregnant. That baby will be my leash. She's not going anywhere."

The sound that ripped through me was inhuman. It was the sound of a heart being torn in two. The sound of a soul breaking. He wasn't just cheating. He was using our child, our precious, unborn baby, as a cage to keep me trapped in his web of deceit.

"No," I whispered to the empty room, tears streaming down my face. "No, you're wrong, Andre."

I stayed there all night, watching the screen, my tears eventually running dry, replaced by a cold, hard resolve that settled deep in my bones.

The next morning, as the sun rose over the city, I didn't go home. I went to my lawyer's office.

"I want to activate the infidelity clause in my prenup," I said, my voice steady. "And I want to file for divorce."

Then I made another call, this one to a number I hadn't dialed in years.

"Jude Gates, please."

A moment later, a familiar, deep voice came on the line. "Haven?"

"Jude," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. "I need your help. I need your help to destroy my husband."