The cold blue light from Jenny Watson's phone hit her eyes like ice. Sharp. Brutal. Blinding in the dark.
She blinked. The sting didn't go away. It sank deeper, slicing past her vision and straight into her chest. Her heart didn't beat. It thudded. Heavy. Off rhythm. Distant.
She lay frozen. The glow from the screen lit up her face. Pale. Not the soft blush Damon used to say he loved. No, tonight she looked like a ghost. Hollow. Faded. Empty.
Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Only breath. Shallow and shaky.
She scrolled.
Each photo hit harder than the last. One after another. Like tiny knives. Clean. Silent. Unforgiving.
Switzerland.
That word alone twisted something inside her. She had pictured it so differently. Soft snow. Cozy fires. Maybe a honeymoon. A fresh start.
Not this. Not betrayal.
The first image was bright. Happy. Her husband—Damon—grinning like he owned the Alps. His arm wrapped around another woman. Not someone she knew. But that didn't matter.
She didn't even focus on the woman's face. Her eyes locked on something else. Damon's ski suit. Navy blue. Sleek. Stylish. She had picked it out herself. Spent weeks reading ski blogs. Matching colors. Finding the best gear to keep him warm. She even wrapped it in silver paper and hid it under the tree.
Now, looking at it made her stomach turn.
He had told her it was a business trip. "Important meetings," he said. "Europe's the key to our next phase."
And when she looked disappointed about spending Valentine's Day alone, he brushed it off with a kiss. "We'll celebrate when I get back. I promise."
That promise was a lie.
Another photo. The same woman. A different pose. This time they were laughing. Cheeks flushed from the cold. Their ski goggles pushed up. Hair messy. Faces close. Too close.
Jenny's fingers tightened around her phone.
The last photo broke her.
It was taken indoors. Warm light. A hotel room. Damon sat on the edge of the bed, his hand cradling the woman's head. His lips on her forehead. His eyes closed.
Tender.
Loving.
Intimate.
Jenny couldn't breathe. Her chest rose and fell in uneven jerks. Like someone had knocked the wind out of her.
There was no message. No explanation. Just the photos. Sent from an unknown number. No signature. No warning. No comfort.
Her hands went numb. She barely felt the phone anymore. The scent of the room hit her next. Damon's cologne. Spicy cedar. Once it reminded her of nights in his arms. Now it made her gag.
The air felt poisoned.
She tried to calm down. Tried to steady her breath. But her thoughts raced. Damon had always acted like he was above consequences. Like rules were for other people. Not for him.
But this?
This was different.
This was war.
Her mind rewound. Stanford. Spring afternoons. Damon chasing her across the lawn, barefoot, guitar slung across his chest. Singing badly. Laughing loudly. Winning her over, bit by bit.
She had thought he was genuine. Real.
He said she was the only one who ever mattered.
And she had believed him.
Now she felt like a fool.
She thought she'd tamed him. That her love had anchored him.
But no. She was just another name on his list. Another "accomplishment." Another woman who thought she was different.
The phone slipped from her fingers. It landed on the thick Persian rug with a dull thud. The screen stayed lit. That last photo still there. Still mocking her.
Jenny sat up slowly. Then stood.
She was 172 centimeters tall. Usually, she stood with grace. Shoulders back. Chin up. She had been a straight-A student. A business major. A self-made woman.
But now, her legs shook. Her spine wobbled. She walked toward the window, arms wrapped tight around herself.
The city outside sparkled. Glittering buildings. A skyline built on dreams. But none of that light reached her.
Everything inside her was cold.
She pressed her forehead to the glass. The chill matched the numbness in her chest.
Damon didn't know she had seen the photos.
That gave her power.
A sick kind of clarity filled her. Not rage. Not sadness. Something in between. Something sharper.
Let him stay in the dark.
Let him smile.
Let him feel safe.
For now.
She closed her eyes. Memories flooded in. Not just Damon's betrayal. All of it.
The endless spa days. The social events. The forced smiles. Amber Watson's icy voice.
"You must keep your tummy tight. A man needs a reason to stay."
"By your age, I had two sons already."
They promised her money.
One hundred million dollars—if she had a child.
Like it was a job.
Like her body was a contract.
Jenny Watson. The girl who clawed her way up from nothing. The girl who lost her parents and never stopped fighting. Now she was treated like a broodmare. A trophy.
And if she left Damon? The prenup said she'd get nothing. No house. No savings. Not even a car.
Damon had made sure of that. He was always three steps ahead. Controlling. Calculating. Cruel behind the charm.
He wouldn't let her go. Not without pain. Not without dragging her through the mud.
So she wouldn't leave.
Not yet.
She would play her role. Smile. Host dinners. Laugh at jokes that made her sick.
She would give them what they wanted.
A child.
But not Damon's.
No.
He didn't deserve to pass on anything. Not his name. Not his blood.
Her heart started to pound again. A new rhythm. Steady. Strong.
She knew who it would be.
James.
Damon's older brother.
The one Damon always hated.
James was different. Quiet. Gentle. Brilliant in a quiet way.
Damon envied him. Feared him. Pushed him out of the family spotlight.
Jenny always liked him. More than she ever let on.
The idea crept into her like a secret flame.
James.
The true father.
And Damon? He'd never know. Not at first.
But one day, he'd find out. He'd look at the child and see something off. Something wrong. And then it would hit him.
His empire. His legacy. His pride.
All built on someone else's blood.
Jenny's lips twitched. Not quite a smile. But close.
It wasn't just revenge anymore.
It was survival.
It was justice.
And maybe… maybe it was freedom.
She turned from the window. Stood tall again. Stronger now. The tears on her cheeks had dried. Her eyes were no longer soft.
They were steel.
She wasn't broken.
Not anymore.
The Watsons had built a gilded cage around her. But they forgot something.
She was smart.
She was patient.
And she wasn't done yet.
They didn't see her coming.
But they would.
Soon.
She wasn't broken. Not anymore.
The Watsons had built a gilded cage around her. But they forgot one thing.
She knew how to make people underestimate her.
And now, she knew exactly where to begin.
Not with a fight. Not with a scream. Not with a goodbye.
With a question.
A name.
James.
She reached for her phone. Not to cry. Not to confront.
To set the first domino in motion.
"Do you have a date for the gala?"