Chapter 3: Playing With Fire

The next morning, Autumn texted me.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I stared at her name, debating whether to even open it.

"Babe, it’s my best friend’s birthday tonight. I’m going to celebrate after work. Take care of yourself~"

She added two kissing emojis, as if nothing was wrong. The audacity made my blood boil.

Reading that, I almost threw up again.

I tossed my phone onto the bed, disgusted. How could she lie so easily?

What a load of crap—she’d clearly planned to go see the kid today!

I could see right through her. The excuses, the fake smiles—it was all an act.

But now wasn’t the time to confront her, so I just replied with a "yeah whatever" sticker.

I picked the most indifferent emoji I could find, not trusting myself to say anything more.

Right after, I started thinking about how to get back at Mr. Whitaker.

Revenge wasn’t usually my thing, but this was personal. I needed to do something—anything—to make them pay.

I stayed up all night and found out that Mr. Whitaker and his wife built their business together from nothing. They’ve been through a lot.

I went down a rabbit hole online. LinkedIn, old news articles, company websites—they were the classic power couple. Built the company from scratch, survived recessions, celebrated anniversaries in glossy magazine spreads.

Mr. Whitaker doesn’t dare get a divorce because half the board only supports him out of respect for his wife.

She was the brains behind the whole operation, the one everyone respected. Without her, he was nothing.

His wife had been pregnant before, but lost three pregnancies from stress and overwork.

I found old interviews, charity gala photos, even a blog post she wrote about her miscarriages. My heart ached for her, even as I planned to blow up her world.

She’s a few years younger than him, around forty-five.

She looked good for her age—confident, poised, not someone you’d want to mess with.

But now she’s still doing IVF, trying to give Whitaker an heir.

There were whispers on message boards, anonymous comments about her latest round of treatments. I couldn’t believe the lengths she was going for a guy like him.

Mr. Whitaker really is a menace to women!

I shook my head, disgusted. He didn’t deserve any of them.

With that in mind, I found his wife’s contact info and opened a chat window.

It took some digging, but I finally found her work email. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, adrenaline buzzing in my veins.

I sent her the company address with a taunt:

"Hey, Mrs. Whitaker. Ever heard this one? The woman who gives him a baby wins. You can’t even give him a kid—step aside."

I copied and pasted the message, hands shaking. I knew it was cruel. I didn’t care.

"I’m young and I can give Mr. Whitaker a baby. What can you do about it?"

I added another line, twisting the knife. I wanted her to know exactly who she was dealing with.

"Back off—or if you beg, maybe I’ll tell him to leave you a hundred grand."

I smirked as I typed, picturing her face when she read it. I wanted her to hurt, just like I was hurting.

"Don’t believe me? Come find me at work. Let’s settle it in front of everyone."

I hit send, my heart pounding. There was no turning back now.

I watched as the message was marked read, then put my phone away.

I stared at the screen, waiting for a reply that never came. I wondered what she was thinking, what she’d do next.

Honestly, Mr. Whitaker kept that kid well hidden—I couldn’t find any info about him.

I searched everywhere—social media, public records, even old baby registries. Nothing. He was good at covering his tracks.

But Mrs. Whitaker was powerful. This would be nothing for her.

She had resources, connections. If anyone could find out the truth, it was her.

Besides, I wasn’t breaking up a family—I was doing a good deed.

I told myself that, over and over, trying to ease the guilt gnawing at my gut. Maybe I was just the messenger, bringing justice where it was overdue.

IVF at her age means tons of injections. Why should Mrs. Whitaker go through all that for a guy like him?

I pictured her in a sterile clinic, wincing as the nurse jabbed her arm. She deserved better—so much better.

That’s what I told myself, then drove home to wait for Autumn to get what she deserved.

I parked outside the apartment, watching the windows glow in the dusk. I felt weirdly calm. Like the worst was already over.

Either way, I was ready for the show.

I made popcorn, poured myself a drink, and settled in. Whatever happened next, I was ready.

A little after eleven, Autumn came home.

I heard her key in the lock, her footsteps heavy on the stairs. She pushed the door open, her face blotchy and red.

Her eyes were puffy and red, like she’d been punched, and she buried her face in the covers as soon as she got back.

She didn’t say a word, just crawled into bed and pulled the comforter over her head. I watched her, trying not to feel anything.

There was a huge slap mark on her left cheek.

The skin was bright red, the outline of a hand clear as day. I tried not to smile.

I pretended not to know anything and went over, acting concerned:

I knelt by the bed, voice soft. "Hey, what happened? Who hurt you this time?"

She sniffled, peeking out from under the blanket. Her mascara was smeared, lips trembling.

"Babe, do you think it’s a crime to be pretty?"

She pouted, her voice small. I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing.

Autumn sobbed as she collapsed into my arms, wiping away tears.

She clung to me, her body shaking. I patted her back, careful not to let her see the satisfaction in my eyes.

"Today at work, my boss’s wife’s assistant was waiting for me at my desk."

She hiccupped, voice muffled against my shirt. I rubbed her shoulder, pretending to be sympathetic.

"As soon as she saw me, she didn’t say a word—just slapped me across the face."

She pulled back, showing off the mark like a badge of honor. I nodded, feigning concern.

"She told me to watch how I dress at work and stop wearing revealing clothes."

She rolled her eyes, like she couldn’t believe the nerve of some people. I glanced at her outfit, barely holding back a snort.

Autumn twisted her hips beside me, black stockings on her legs, a skimpy white Playboy bunny top on her torso.

She looked like she was heading to a Vegas bachelorette party, not an office job. I shook my head, amused.

Looking like that, nobody would believe she was innocent.

I wondered if she even realized how ridiculous she sounded. Probably not.

But Autumn didn’t see the problem. Instead, she stuck out her chest and arched her back even more.

She preened, like she was daring me to disagree. I just stared, unimpressed.

"That woman is just jealous of how young and pretty I am. She doesn’t even dare confront me. Her husband is cheating on her and she can’t even keep him faithful."

She tossed her hair, voice dripping with disdain. I rolled my eyes, wondering how I’d ever fallen for her act.

(Lady, you think the wife cares about her man? She cares about the inheritance rights.)

I thought to myself, barely holding back a laugh. She had no idea what real power looked like.

How did I never realize she was so shameless?

I stared at her, seeing her for the first time. All the warning signs were there—I just refused to see them.

She wrecked a family and acted like it was a badge of honor.

I shook my head, disgusted. There was no saving someone like her.

I bit back a sigh, too disgusted to respond.

I stared at the wall, biting my tongue. There was nothing left to say.

Just thinking about her, after having a kid, still acting all sweet in my arms made me want to puke.

I pushed her away, my skin crawling. I couldn’t stand the thought of touching her.

I glared at her and said:

"That old guy you call your boss? I saw him. You’d have to be starving to even look at him."

My voice was cold, sharp. I wanted her to know I wasn’t fooled anymore.

"Don’t go around calling people homewreckers. Just looking at him makes me want to vomit."

I stared her down, daring her to deny it. She looked away, her confidence faltering.

Normally, if Autumn cried like this, I’d have done anything to stand up for her.

I used to be her knight in shining armor, ready to fight anyone who hurt her. Not anymore.

But after my "calm, objective" tone, she looked a little thrown and just nodded awkwardly.

She wiped her nose, her bravado slipping. I almost felt sorry for her—almost.

But I wasn’t about to let her off that easy. Seeing her go quiet, I added:

"Autumn, don’t go silent on me. If you don’t say something, I might start thinking you and Mr. Whitaker have something going on."

I raised an eyebrow, watching her squirm. She looked like a kid caught sneaking cookies.

Already annoyed, Autumn jumped up at that.

She shot to her feet, eyes wide with panic. I almost laughed.

"What are you talking about?"

Her voice was high, defensive. She couldn’t even look me in the eye.

She sounded guilty, like a kid caught sneaking cookies.

She paced back and forth, wringing her hands. I watched, amused.

"Matt, you really do joke about everything."

She forced a laugh, but it came out shaky. I didn’t buy it for a second.

"Anyway, it’s time for my friend’s birthday. Don’t wait up for me tonight!"

She grabbed her purse, avoiding my gaze. I watched her go, feeling nothing but relief.

Watching her leave in tears, I couldn’t help but laugh.

I chuckled to myself, shaking my head. It was almost too easy.

Oh man.

I stretched out on the couch, feeling lighter than I had in days. The worst was over.

Guess I made her mad enough to go cry to Mr. Whitaker for a present.

Good luck with that.

I had no idea how fast it would all blow up.