I crept up the stairs of a lake house to find my wife in another man's arms—laughing about how easily she had drugged my drink.

At 7:30 a.m., the front door clicked open.

Natalie walked into the kitchen, looking slightly disheveled but carefully composed. When she saw me sitting at the counter with a steaming mug of black coffee, she stopped dead in her tracks. Her eyes widened, a flicker of raw panic darting across her features before she smoothly buried it beneath a weary smile.

“Ethan? You left early,” she said, setting her designer handbag on the kitchen island. “I searched all over Preston’s house for you. I ended up having to crash in one of the guest rooms because I had too much wine and couldn't drive.”

She lied without blinking. It was flawless.

“I woke up with a brutal migraine,” I said evenly, meeting her eyes. “You were busy networking upstairs, and I didn't want to drag you away from your clients.”

She exhaled softly, shoulders dropping in visible relief. She genuinely believed my story.

“You should have found me,” she purred, walking behind my chair and resting her hands on my shoulders. Her touch sent an icy chill down my spine, but I didn't flinch. “I worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” I replied. “Just thinking about our investments. You mentioned Vantage Crest needed another tranche for that summer exhibition?”

Her eyes lit up. “Yes! Grant mentioned the return window is closing fast. Another eighty thousand would lock in the preferred dividend.”

“I’ll review the paperwork on Monday,” I said, offering a faint, measured smile. “Let’s make sure we get everything we deserve.”

“You’re amazing, Ethan,” she said, kissing the crown of my head.