Page 111 of Six Month Wife

I click the attached link against my better judgment. Against my gut.

As soon as I do, there's a twinge low in my ribs. It's a sick twist that tightens everything.

It's a large photo of Adair on the beach. With a man.

Golden hour casts her in that soft light I’ve memorized like a prayer. Her hair’s windblown, her arms wrapped around a man I’ve never seen before. He’s tall, fit, laughing into her shoulder. Her face is buried in his chest, hands fisting his shirt like she’s holding on for dear life.

Billionaire Heir’s Fake Bride Caught with Real Lover?

The subheadline is even worse.

Sources say 'Fake Wife' Had a Real Lover All Along

My stomach drops. I taste metal. And betrayal.

I’m still staring at the image when another text rolls in from fuckface, who's no doubt reveling in this.

Looks like she was playing her own game of pretend. It must run in the family.

I clench my jaw so tight it aches. My thumbs hover over the screen.

Knowing I shouldn’t, I respond.

You don’t know what you’re talking about. There must be some kind of explanation.

Unlikely. She’s been milking this from the start.

I don't respond. I scroll. There are five photos in total. One with her hand in his. One where he wipes her cheek. One where she’s looking up at him like he’s her goddamn everything.

And the worst one is the hug. It's tight and intimate. The kind of hug that says,You know me better than anyone.

I force myself to breathe.

This doesn’t make sense. She ghosted me. She ripped herself away like I was the threat and then ran to whoever this is?

I went to war for her. I went toDCfor her.

I scroll to the end of the article, and the pit in my stomach turns into a full-blown stomach ache. There's a photo of her and me outside Citrine.

My phone buzzes again.

Aren’t you glad I didn’t retract that piece, now?

And there it is. The match dropped in gasoline.

What I said to you in your office still stands.

You want to blow up my life over her? Look at the photos, Parker. She was never in it for you.

You have until the end of the day. If that article isn’t retracted and replaced with a public apology, I will send everything I have to the Post, the Times, the Journal, every judicial ethics board, and, of course, to the judge’s husband.

I stare at the screen. My reflection looks foreign. I'm wild-eyed, sleep-deprived, and wrecked.

You don’t get to win because you were right.

Don’t do anything stupid.

Then don’t make me. I have nothing to lose. I'm done with you trying to control me.