Chapter 1
Kennedy's POV
Connor Mitchell and I are the golden couple of our industry. Everyone sees him as the devoted husband, always bringing me soup when I work late into the night.
On our fifth wedding anniversary, he gave me an expensive diamond necklace and posted something sweet on Instagram. The comments were all variations of the same thing: jealousy.
I used to believe it too.
Until I cut my trip to Europe short and got into that SUV. The passenger seat was set at the wrong angle, too far forward for my height. A contact lens case fell out of the sun visor, and neither of us wears contacts.
When I had my cousin pull the dashcam footage and saw him with his arm around some petite girl getting into the car, the truth hit me. My attentive husband, the one who called me every night I was away, had been using my connections and resources to play successful mentor to a twenty-two-year-old intern.
The irony is, he thinks he's gotten away with it. He has no idea I can see right through every move he makes.
Once rot sets into a perfect marriage, no amount of perfume can hide the stench.
"Kennedy, two weeks in Europe had to be exhausting. Made your favorite mushroom bisque for you."
Connor steers with one hand and reaches over to hold mine with the other. His eyes radiate warmth, like I'm something precious.
"It went well. We closed the deal, everything's on track." I keep my tone neutral, but my gaze drifts from his face down to the leather seat beneath me.
Something's off.
At five-seven, I keep the passenger seat pushed back with the backrest tilted slightly. But now there's noticeably more space between my knees and the glove compartment. The backrest sits too upright.
This is how someone around five-three would adjust it, someone who sits very primly. A faint perfume lingers in the car, one I don't wear.
"Did you lend the car to someone while I was gone?"
Connor's hand tightens on the wheel for just a second. "No, why would you ask that? I've been driving it to work every day. Wouldn't let anyone else touch it."
"Hm." I reach up and flip down the sun visor. A pink contact lens case with a cartoon bear tumbles out and lands in my lap.
The air in the car goes still.
Connor slams on the brakes. We jerk to a stop at the red light.
"What is that?" I pick up the case and hold it in front of him.
Neither of us wears contacts.
"Oh, that." His eyes dart away. "I gave a few interns from the project a ride to a site visit the other day. One of them must've left it. You know how these kids are, always losing stuff."
"Which one?" I meet his gaze directly. "Since when does giving someone a ride mean they get to sit in my seat?"
"Kennedy, come on. You're overthinking this." He sighs. "It's nothing. The back seat was full, she had to sit up front. Don't read into it. I'll toss it tomorrow."
I drop the case into my purse. "Keep it in case she comes looking for it."
I close my eyes, done looking at him.
No hysterics. No tears. Not even anger. After years in this business, I've learned to shut down every emotion the second a crisis hits and rely purely on cold calculation.
Betrayal only happens once or it happens constantly.
Once there's a crack, you don't patch it up. You figure out how to cut your losses and maximize what you walk away with.
When we get back to the penthouse downtown, Connor ties on an apron and heads to the kitchen to heat the soup.
I sit on the couch and pull out my phone. I dial my cousin Dylan Harper. He runs a freelance consulting business as a front, but really operates a high-end private investigation firm.
"Kennedy? Thought you weren't getting back till tomorrow."
"Got back early." I stare at the gray sky beyond the windows. "I need you to run someone."
"Who, another mole at your company?"
"My husband."
Silence on the other end, then Dylan lowers his voice. "Kennedy, you're serious? Connor Mitchell? The guy who worships the ground you walk on?"
"I'm not joking." I take a sip of water. "Last three months. Dashcam data, credit card records, hotel stays. Any young woman around five-three who's been near him. Focus on his students and the interns on his project team."
"Jesus." Dylan mutters a curse under his breath. "If that bastard really screwed you over, I'll have someone break his legs."
I glance toward the kitchen where Connor moves around. A cold smile crosses my face. "Won't be necessary. We don't do anything illegal."
"Got it. Give me three days."
Less than ten minutes after I hang up, Dylan's email arrives.
I open it. High-resolution screenshots from the dashcam fill the screen, timestamped from the second week I was abroad.
Connor pulls into an upscale mall's underground garage late at night. The passenger door opens. A petite girl in a white sundress steps out. Connor walks around the hood and slides his arm around her waist like it's the most natural thing in the world. They head toward the elevator laughing together.
Below the screenshots, Dylan attached her profile: Willow Reed, 22, recent graduate, lead intern on his flagship project.
A laugh escapes me. My fingers drum against the armrest.
I have to hand it to him, he's creative. Using my network and resources to play accomplished mentor to some fresh grad. Connor Mitchell, the way you leech off me while acting like it's all yours... I have to admire the nerve.
"Kennedy, soup's ready. Come eat."
Connor's warm, caring voice drifts from the kitchen.
I stand, smooth my sleeves, and paste on a pleasant smile.
"Coming."
