Chapter 1: The Wife Who Hired Me

I seduced a married man.

I know how that sounds. Just saying it out loud made my heart thud. Still, it’s the truth.

Even just thinking it sounds ugly. But I remember every calculated smile, every time my hand brushed his arm, every late-night text that lingered longer than it should have. I played every card I had, coaxing him to leave his wife and marry me—just so I could take her place. God, what a mess.

The gossip spread like wildfire—small towns eat that stuff up. Everyone called me shameless, a homewrecker, someone who wrecked a marriage just for fun. They’d whisper in the grocery store aisles, shoot daggers at me in the coffee shop, and I’d hear my name in snatches as I walked down Main Street. "That’s her," someone would mutter, thinking I couldn't hear. I got used to pretending I didn’t notice. But every time I heard it, it burned.

But only his wife was secretly relieved—because she was the one who paid me to do it. She found me through a friend-of-a-friend, the way desperate people always do when they’re out of options. The irony tasted bitter every single time someone spit the word "homewrecker" at me. I wanted to laugh, or maybe scream.

After it was done, though, she didn’t come to thank me—she showed up at my office, furious, storming in like a thundercloud, her anger practically crackling in the air.

"I only asked you to break us up. I never told you to marry him!"

Her voice was sharp. Brittle. It echoed off the bare walls, slicing through the room. She looked like she was about to fall apart, barely holding herself together with sheer will. "Why would you throw your life away like this?"

Marissa Lang. Well, now she’s his ex-wife. She stood in front of me, scarf pulled up high, shoving a wad of cash at me. Her hands shook so badly a few crumpled twenties slipped and fluttered to the floor.

She blurted out, frantic: "Why did you actually marry him? He’s a monster, a demon—don’t you get that?"

Her words tumbled out, desperate and raw. "I told you, once it was over, just break up and leave this town. Why’d you go down to the courthouse and sign the marriage license with him?"

I looked at her—red, swollen eyes, face streaked with tears. For a second, I almost felt something. Almost. I took a breath, steadying myself, and said, cool as ever,

"Because I fell for him. Spending all that time together, feelings grew. He’s my husband now. You’re divorced—he’s mine."

I kept my tone even. But inside, the air felt tight, tension buzzing like a live wire. My jaw clenched. She stared at me, stunned, then ripped off her scarf and beanie.

The left side of her face was swollen and bruised, the corner of her mouth split, a patch of hair missing, raw skin showing through. Jesus. The sight made my stomach lurch, but I didn’t let it show.

She pointed at her face, hands shaking. "He did this the night before we divorced. He told me—even after the divorce, if I talked, he wouldn’t let me go."

My stomach twisted. Then she started laughing, wild and broken. It was the sound of someone who’d run out of tears—nothing funny about it, just pain spilling out in the open.

"This is the last time he’ll ever hit me. You knew—you knew exactly why I hired you, so I could finally get free of him. Why did you marry him?"

And then, as if things weren’t raw enough, Marissa started pulling up her shirt right there in my office.

Her back was a mess of purple bruises, not a single spot spared. Her chest was covered in angry burns, some still pink and healing. I wanted to look away, but I forced myself to meet her eyes.

Old wounds layered over new—she’d shown me some the first time we met, but now there were so many more. The pain in her eyes was deeper than any bruise. It cut right through me.

I turned away, my voice cold. "That’s enough, Marissa. You’re divorced, so stay away! Don’t talk trash about my husband, and stop showing up."

I could feel the chill in my own words, the way they sliced through the air. My stomach was tight. "Why did he only hit you and not anyone else? We’ve been together six months, and he’s never touched me! Don’t show up in front of me again, trying to stir the pot."

She finally snapped, yanking her clothes back on and storming out, her fury like a thunderclap. She didn’t just look angry—she looked betrayed, gutted, like I’d twisted the knife.

"He’s just pretending. You’ll regret it! You’ll regret it!"

Her words echoed down the hallway as she slammed the door. I watched her storm out. Good. That’s how a real wife should treat the other woman, right? Like I was the villain in her story. Maybe I was.

Stay away, Marissa. Don’t come back. Not here. Not to me.

I pulled the marriage license out of my purse, hands trembling just a little. I’d waited so, so long for this moment. God, it felt unreal.

Ethan Langston, we’re legally married. Finally.

Regret it? Not a chance.

From the moment I set up our first meeting—to the day he left his wife for me—I’d spent years getting ready. Every detail, every move, all of it building toward this one piece of paper in my hands.

Marissa never realized my private office was built just for her. That was always part of the plan.

My goal had always been the same: to marry Ethan Langston. That was it. No matter what it took.