Ruining My Cheating CEO Husband

"Without her designs, none of this would have happened." My husband, Desmond Vance, raised his glass to me in front of everyone.

Eight years of marriage. Five years building this company from a moldy basement. I thought we'd finally made it—until that night, when his mistress's messages lit up his iPad:

[You were so rough with me on the couch last night.] [Don't forget—you promised to marry me and move me into that villa. I can't keep waiting like this.]

I gave this man eight whole years—my talent, my entire youth. And he wanted to take it all to support his mistress.

Sorry, darling. I'm not the fool you married anymore.

——

"Congratulations to Vance Company for landing the Emerald Bay urban renewal project!" The city hall representative gripped Desmond's hand firmly.

The words had barely left his mouth when the entire ballroom erupted into thunderous applause.

I stood at the edge of the crowd, watching my husband, Desmond Vance, get swarmed by reporters and partners at the center of it all.

He wore the deep navy suit I'd had custom-tailored for him on Savile Row, his golden-brown hair styled to perfection.

He raised his champagne glass, his gaze finding mine across the room, and gave me a smile—one that belonged only to us.

"This is our shared victory," Desmond said loudly during his toast. "Especially my wife, Sera. Without her designs, none of this would have happened."

In that moment, I was the happiest woman in all of Seattle.

Eight years of marriage. Five years building the company out of a basement. We had finally reached the pinnacle of our lives.

The dinner was held at a rooftop restaurant downtown.

Desmond had had a fair amount to drink, and had stepped out onto the terrace to smoke cigars with a few city officials.

His iPad sat carelessly beside my handbag.

That's when the screen lit up.

I hadn't meant to pry—I only wanted to move it to safety before some passing waiter knocked it off the table.

But the moment my finger grazed the screen, an unread iMessage popped up. The sender: "Valerie T."—the PR director we'd hired three months ago at considerable expense.

[Darling, congratulations! I can't wait to move into that villa on Mercer Island. Are you sure the old hag will sign the equity trust agreement this week?]

[I miss you. Last night on the office couch—you were rough with me.]

My breath caught in my throat.

I stared at those lines, trying to convince myself this was some cruel joke.

But then another notification appeared—a bank alert, automated and merciless:

[Your account ending in 7892 has successfully wire transferred $500,000.00 to V.T. Consulting LLC.]

Five hundred thousand dollars.

That was nearly all the liquid capital our company had left on its books—the first installment we'd set aside to launch the Emerald Bay project.

My hands began to shake uncontrollably. The iPad nearly slipped from my grip.

I shot to my feet and stumbled toward the restroom, clutching the tablet to my chest.

I locked myself in a stall and slid down against the tile wall.

I bit down hard on my wrist to keep from sobbing out loud.

How could this be happening?

Just last night, he'd held me in his arms, kissed my forehead, and told me I was the only soulmate he'd ever have in this life.

The same man who used to eat cold pizza with me in that basement, who swore he'd give me the best life imaginable—was he really, on the night of our greatest triumph, plotting to throw me out on the street?

I don't know how long I cried. My chest ached like it was being ground to pulp.

Then Desmond called.

Staring at that familiar name on the screen, I clutched the iPad tighter, a wild thought screaming through my mind: Storm out there! Rip off his mask in front of every politician and reporter in the room! Scream at him for trampling on eight years of our love!

My hand was already gripping the stall door handle.

But then I stopped.

If I burst out there now, raving like a woman who'd lost her mind, he could simply play innocent—claim someone else had sent the message by mistake, or worse, twist it around and say I'd gone insane.

And that equity trust agreement, the one designed to strip me of everything I'd built—it would still go through, perfectly legal, perfectly clean.

No. That would cost me everything.

That twenty-million-dollar contract held countless nights I'd spent hunched over blueprints, every ounce of effort I'd poured into it. If I confronted him now, I'd only be tipping my hand—handing myself over to be discarded like a fool.

I took a deep breath and let the phone buzz until the call dropped on its own.

Get a grip, Sera.

I picked up the iPad again.

I unlocked it with my fingerprint—he'd probably forgotten it was still registered on his device.

Quickly, I photographed those messages, the transfer record, and several encrypted emails in his inbox labeled "Asset Restructuring Draft," forwarding everything to a private email account only I knew about.

Once it was done, I deleted the forwarding history and placed the iPad back exactly where it had been.

I walked to the sink and splashed cold water on my face, again and again.

I reapplied my makeup and forced my lips into a smile.

When I pushed open the restroom door and stepped back into the ballroom, Desmond was just walking in from the terrace.

"Darling, where did you go? I called you and you didn't pick up."

He came toward me, wrapping an arm naturally around my waist, pressing a kiss to my cheek.

Swallowing down the nausea rising in my throat, I wrapped my arms around him and smiled.

"Just touching up my makeup. Desmond—tonight, you were incredible."