After Husband's Affair, I Remarried a Billionaire

Today was supposed to be the day Willow married Charles Lancaster—her boyfriend of eight years.

Instead, she'd found a lace bra in his car. With suspicious white stains on it.

Any adult knew what that was. Semen.

While she'd been getting her makeup done and slipping into her wedding dress, her beloved groom had been screwing another woman in his backseat.

Now Willow Spencer sat alone in the bridal suite. Outside, the reception buzzed with laughter and clinking glasses. She couldn't summon a smile.

She'd waited all day. Not one word of explanation.

Footsteps approached. The door swung open.

Charles Lancaster stood there reeking of booze, but damn if he didn't look good—tailored tuxedo hugging his frame, devastatingly handsome, charisma dialed to eleven.

His carefully styled hair, now charmingly disheveled after hours of celebration, only enhanced his appeal.

"Honey," he said, eyes lighting up at the sight of her still in her wedding gown. He stepped forward and wrapped her in an apologetic embrace.

"Those people were exhausting. Sorry to keep you waiting." His voice dropped to a husky whisper. "The rest of the night is just for us."

With that, his burning gaze fixed on her lips as he leaned in to kiss her.

A heartbeat before their lips met, Willow turned away and his kiss landed on her cheek instead, confusion furrowing his brow.

"Is there something you want to tell me?" she asked, her voice deliberately neutral.

Charles hesitated before breaking into a slow, confident smile. "That I love you? After eight years together, don't you know how I feel about you?"

Disappointment washed over her as she lowered her eyes. He still wasn't going to mention it.

Taking her silence as acceptance, Charles continued whispering sweet nothings while his hand slid under her dress, exploring with obvious desire.

Willow grabbed his wrist, stopping him cold.

Frustration flashed across his face. "What's wrong now?"

Willow studied the man before her—how could eight years together suddenly feel like looking at a stranger?

"You smell like alcohol," she said, finding an excuse. "I don't like it. Go shower first."

The frustration in Charles's eyes melted into affection. He cupped her face, planted a quick kiss on her lips. "So that's why you're upset. I'll clean up and be right back. Wait for me!"

Willow forced a smile as she watched him disappear into the bathroom.

The sound of running water filled the suite, and memories flooded her mind.

Their story had seemed like a fairytale. She came from a modest background while Charles was Lancaster royalty.

At first, she'd been certain his pursuit was just a game—until that game stretched into three years of relentless courtship.

Once together, Charles had practically worshipped her, proudly declaring his love to anyone who would listen.

For eight whole years, he'd never even raised his voice to her.

She had no idea what Charles had seen in her; she'd believed that it was the magic of love.

How could someone who loved her so deeply cheat? Willow couldn't bring herself to believe it. Maybe the bra was just a gift he'd bought for her and forgotten about...

The sound of clothes falling interrupted her thoughts. Charles had hastily hung his jacket, and it had slipped to the floor.

As Willow picked it up, a lipstick tube tumbled from the pocket.

She froze, fingers tightening around the fabric.

Taking a deep breath, she picked up the lipstick and opened it, confirming it had been used.

This tuxedo was custom-made for today's wedding—Charles was wearing it for the first time.

Which meant the lipstick had been placed there today.

Pain gripped her heart as her vision blurred. Her carefully constructed rationalizations crumbled in an instant.

After several seconds, she regained enough composure to shakily return the lipstick to his pocket.

When Charles emerged from the bathroom, she pretended to be asleep.

"Babe?" he called softly.

Seeing no response, Charles sighed. "Didn't I tell you to wait for me?"

He complained half-heartedly but didn't wake her, thinking she'd been exhausted after those busy days preparing their wedding.

Instead, his attention shifted to a text message that made a flicker of conflict cross his face. After a moment's hesitation, he grabbed his jacket and quietly slipped out the door.

As soon as the latch clicked, Willow's eyes snapped open. She waited a few heartbeats before following him into the hallway.

She watched as a woman pulled Charles into a guest room at the end of the corridor.

The room belonged to Rachel Smith—daughter of the Smith family and Charles's childhood friend.

Rachel had always been clingy with Charles. He'd insisted he only saw her as a sister, and Willow had trusted him despite her misgivings.

Now, through the crack in the door, the truth unfolded before her eyes.

Rachel stood on tiptoe trying to kiss Charles. He pushed her away firmly, his voice carrying a warning, "It's my wedding night. Behave yourself or else..."

"Charlie," Rachel pouted, "you were plenty enthusiastic in the break room earlier today. If we'd had more time, we could have..."

Under Charles's icy stare, she stopped mid-sentence. Her hands wandered provocatively over him as she sank to her knees, revealing her cleavage.

"Your wife is so mean, kicking you out on your wedding night. You must be frustrated. Let me help you..."

Charles looked down at Rachel with what appeared to be contempt.

Thinking about his wife in their bridal suite, his face turned icy cold. He'd just wanted to warn Rachel to behave herself, yet she turned out to be so bold.

The words of rejection were visibly forming on his lips when Rachel unzipped his pants and took him in her mouth.

She knew exactly how to please him. Charles swallowed hard, his mind increasingly filled with pleasure.

He gave in. Still, as if for comfort, he tried to picture the woman on her knees as Willow, the woman he still loved.

Willow watched in horror as his resistance crumbled. Charles closed his eyes, his hands roughly grabbing Rachel's hair as he groaned in pleasure.

Rage, disgust, and nausea surged through Willow's body. She turned and fled back down the hallway before she actually threw up, her heart heavier than it had ever been.

Eight years together—nearly three thousand days and nights. How many times had Charles slept with Rachel? When had it started?

Those moments that once made her feel blessed now only left her drowning in doubt.

When he'd insisted on seeing her safely home, had he been rushing off to meet Rachel afterward?

When he'd tenderly cared for her during illness, had those gentle touches been practiced on another woman's body?

She had been naive, caught up in Charles's fabricated tale of pure love.

He claimed to respect her by abstaining from sex before marriage, but she'd forgotten one simple truth: he was still a man, and his body had needs his words could deny.

Tears streamed down her face, blurring her vision as she accepted this sickening reality. The Charles who had supposedly loved her for eight years had betrayed her—perhaps just tonight, or maybe for years.

Back at their room—or what she thought was their room—Willow wearily reached for the doorknob.

In the next instant, a burning-hot hand seized her wrist. Before she could react, she crashed into a hard, scorching male chest, surrounded by the heady scent of masculinity.

She'd entered the wrong room!

Willow's mind belatedly registered what had happened.

She looked up, intending to explain, but it was too late—the stranger's hot lips pressed against hers, silencing any words she might have said.