The Bad Guy Is Cheated On Me

The Scars She Hid From The World

REGINA MCBRIDE

The heavy iron gates of the Wilderness Correction Camp groaned as they released me after three years of state-sponsored hell. I stood on the dirt road, clutching a plastic bag that held my entire life, waiting for the family that claimed they sent me there for "rehab." My brother, Brady, picked me up in a luxury SUV only to throw me out onto a deserted highway in the middle of a brewing storm. He told me I was a "public relations nightmare" and that the rain might finally wash the "stink" of the camp off me. He drove away, leaving me to limp miles through the mud on a snapped ankle. When I finally dragged myself to our family estate, my mother didn't offer a hug; she gasped in horror because my muddy clothes were ruining her Italian marble. They didn't give me my old room back. Instead, they banished me to a moldy gardener’s shack and hired a "babysitter" to make sure I didn't embarrass them further. My sister, Kaleigh, stood there in white cashmere, pretending to cry while clinging to her fiancé, Ambrose—the man who had once been mine. They all treated me like a volatile junkie, refusing to acknowledge that Kaleigh was the one who planted the drugs in my bag three years ago. They wanted to believe I was broken so they wouldn't have to feel guilty about the "wellness retreat" that was actually a torture chamber. I sat in the dark of that shed, feeling the cooling gel on the cigarette burns that covered my arms, and realized they had made a fatal mistake. They thought they had erased me, but I had returned with a roadmap of scars and a hidden satellite phone. At dinner, I didn't beg for their love. I simply rolled up my sleeves and showed them the price of their silence. As the wine spilled and the lies crumbled, I sent a single text to the only person I trusted: "I'm in. Let them simmer." The hunt was finally on.

Modern Revenge Scheming

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Ayla sat on the edge of the custom Italian leather sofa in the master bedroom of the Farrell estate.

The glow of her laptop screen illuminated her face in the dim room. She scrolled through the PR itinerary for the Farrell Group's upcoming week, double-checking every interview slot and press release.

Outside the heavy mahogany doors, the distinct, low growl of an Aston Martin engine cut through the quiet Atherton night.

The engine shut off.

Ayla immediately closed her laptop, setting it on the glass coffee table.

She stood up and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling mirror. She smoothed her hands down the sides of her silk nightgown, adjusting the hem to make sure it fell perfectly.

The heavy double doors to the bedroom pushed open.

Axel walked in, bringing a rush of cold California night air with him.

Ayla let a soft, practiced smile touch her lips. She walked toward him, automatically reaching out to take his haute couture suit jacket as he slipped it off his shoulders.

As the heavy fabric settled into her hands, a scent hit her.

It was faint, but unmistakable. A heavy blend of sandalwood and crushed roses.

Ayla's fingers stiffened against the wool lapels. Her movements stopped completely.

She only ever used unscented, medical-grade skincare. She never wore perfume.

Axel didn't notice her hesitation. He leaned in and pressed a dry, dismissive kiss to her forehead.

He pulled back, already lifting a hand to rub the bridge of his nose.

"The closed-door meeting with Sequoia Capital was a nightmare," Axel muttered, his voice thick with exhaustion. "They never know when to stop talking."

Ayla swallowed the hard lump forming in her throat. She forced her lungs to take in a breath.

She turned away from him and walked into the climate-controlled walk-in closet, carefully hanging the jacket on a cedar hanger.

When she walked back into the bedroom, Axel was standing by the edge of the bed.

He yanked his silk tie loose with a frustrated sigh and tossed it carelessly onto the Persian rug.

He turned his back to her and started unbuttoning his crisp white dress shirt, preparing to head into the master bathroom.

The shirt slid off his broad shoulders, dropping to the floor and exposing the tight muscles of his back.

Ayla stepped out of the closet, her eyes naturally falling on his left shoulder blade.

Her pupils contracted so fast it physically hurt.

The air in the room seemed to vanish. Her lungs stopped working.

There, stamped vividly across his left shoulder blade, were three dark red, raised scratches.

The skin around them was inflamed, the edges slightly broken and bleeding.

The spacing between the marks was exactly the width of a woman's fingernails. The downward angle and the sheer force of the cuts made it impossible to be an accidental scrape from gym equipment.

Axel turned his head slightly. He caught her staring dead at his back.

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