Ruining my cheating ex husbands life

I stood in the middle of the gala I had spent months curating, waiting for the perfect moment to tell my husband, Gabe, that he was going to be a father.

Instead, I watched him place a possessive hand on the stomach of my best friend, Harper. A reporter nearby whispered the truth that stopped my heart: Harper was pregnant with Gabe’s child, and they were announcing it after the IPO.

When I confronted him, Gabe didn't apologize. He looked at me with cold calculation and told me a scandal would ruin the company. Then came the ultimatum that shattered my soul. He wanted me to hide in the countryside, give birth in secret, and hand my baby over to his mistress to raise.

"Don't be selfish," he said. "She needs this baby more than you do."

When I refused, his mother had me dragged away and locked in my bedroom. My windows were sealed, and my own parents sold me out, releasing a statement that I had suffered a mental breakdown. I was trapped, starving, and waiting for them to induce labor so they could steal my child.

But they made one fatal mistake. To keep me "calm," Gabe handed me my phone for five minutes.

I didn't call the police; the Sullivans owned them. I dialed a number I had found in my adoption papers years ago. A number belonging to Anthony Dean, the most dangerous man on the East Coast.

"They are going to kill my baby," I whispered into the receiver.

The voice on the other end was low, terrifying, and promised absolute violence.

"I'm coming."

Chapter 1

The image on the reporter’s smartphone screen was grainy, a pixelated secret captured in low light, but the timestamp in the corner was sharp enough to cut: yesterday.

I stood frozen in the center of the ballroom, my fingers white-knuckling a silver tray of champagne flutes that suddenly weighed a thousand pounds. Twenty feet away stood my husband, Gabe Sullivan.

He was laughing.

Worse, his hand was anchored possessively against the small of Harper Nicholson’s back. My best friend.

"Did you see this?" the reporter whispered to his colleague, angling the phone so the screen didn't catch the chandelier's glare. "Gabe Sullivan and Harper Nicholson. Source says she's six weeks along. They're announcing it after the IPO launches."

The world didn't spin. It simply ceased to exist.

I was twelve weeks pregnant.

I was standing in the middle of the charity gala I had spent three months meticulously curating, wearing a designer gown that was beginning to pinch my waist, waiting for the perfect lull in the conversation to tell Gabe he was going to be a father.

I watched, helpless, as Gabe leaned down. He whispered something against the shell of Harper’s ear. She giggled—a sound that carried over the string quartet—and placed her hand over his, right atop her stomach.

It was an intimate, secret gesture. A gesture that belonged to a husband and wife.

My grip on the tray failed.

*Crash.*

The sound of shattering crystal severed the orchestral music like a gunshot. Champagne exploded across the floor, soaking the silk hem of my gown. Every head in the room swiveled toward me.

Gabe’s smile vanished instantly. He looked at me not with concern, but with sharp, calculating annoyance. He muttered something to Harper, patted her hand reassuringly, and stalked toward me. His strides were heavy, aggressive.

"Charlotte," he hissed, seizing my arm. His fingers dug into my flesh hard enough to bruise. "What the hell are you doing? You’re making a scene."