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“Open it.”

There’s nothing written on the folder, nothing to hint at what could be inside.

Maybe it’s a contract with a new client, one of the big ones she’d been hinting at. I’m not naive enough to think it’s a promotion letter. She’d said I need another win under my belt before taking me to the next level. If this is the project, though, it means I could be looking at a promotion before the end of the year—which would be amazing for my bank account.

I pinch the metal closure open and thumb open the folder. My heart starts beating a million miles a minute, a pressure building right below my sternum. I grab onto the paper that peeks out and pull it free.

What.

The.

Fuck.

There, on premium bright white printer paper in full CMYK vibrancy, is a picture of Cullen and me at the charity gala talking to Garrett. His arm is wrapped around my waist, and he is smiling down at me like I hold the world, while I look like a giddy schoolgirl fawning over Garrett.

Nausea rushes through my stomach and clogs my throat. The air leaves my lungs as the world around me turns to a buzzing hum. It feels like I am about to pass out, my body shutting down from the absolute shock. I don’t even register the shaking of my hand until I notice the way the paper vibrates in my vision.

This can’t be real.

Inexplicable fear plunges through my chest, creating a hollowness in my body that slowly fills with pure ice.

“I—” I can’t think of anything to say.

“Yes?” Celine’s voice is devoid of emotion, and it throws me off.

I thought she’d yell at me, curse me out or something, based on the way I’ve seen her react to Cullen in the past. I slowly raise my gaze to find her still lounging comfortably in her chair, that Versace pen tapping rhythmically on the table and pure hatred in her eyes.

Her patience is unnerving.

“I can explain.”

“Can you?” She stops tapping her pen, opening her side drawer back up and pulling out additional pieces of paper. She collects the thin stack in her hands, bouncing them on the table to organize them before handing them to me. “I would love to hear your explanation. Think carefully about what you are about to say—those pictures are from credited paparazzi and photographers at the event, if you plan to claim that they’re doctored.”

I take the stack with clammy fingers, leafing through all the incriminating evidence. It’s picture after picture of us at the gala. I hadn’t even noticed someone taking photos of us. There’d been cameras everywhere, but I didn’t imagine any were trained on me. Naive. So damn naive.

I fell into a false sense of safety, and now I am paying the price.

“I didn’t know.” The words sound so meek, my explanation pathetic.

“Didn’t know?” She lets out a haughty scoff. “You saw me arguing with him at the Kelton event. I even met with you for a postmortem on the matter, and you said nothing.”

“That was after I’d already met him. I swear I had no idea who he was. I didn’t even know you’d been married.”

“And you think that makes a difference? You think your ignorance absolves you?” Her voice rises an octave with slight hysteria.

I have no clue what to say. Any response I give will be wrong.

“I’m sorry, Celine.”

“Sorry doesn’t make up for sleeping with my husband.”

“I didn’t—”

“Didn’t sleep with him? You really expect me to believe that. Do I look like that much of an idiot to you, Verity? Do I? Tell me. Do I seem that naive?”

“No, but—”

“Am I a joke to you? Did you think it was funny? Coming into work every day, sitting across from me in meetings with the knowledge that the man in your bed is one whom I loathe with every fiber of my being. Did it make you feel special to take what I lost?”