(Nathan Frank's POV)

The slam of the front door still echoed in my ears—the night everything shattered. The night Jane caught me cheating, tearing our world apart. I barely had a moment to breathe before my hand was already on my phone. “Michael.” My voice was a low rasp of panic as I stood there, naked in a bed that reeked of betrayal. “I need you now.”

There was no hesitation on the other end. Just the soft rustle of motion. He never asked questions. That was one of the reasons I kept him around—discretion was his second nature.

“I’m on my way, Mr. Frank.”

I grabbed my pants off the floor and yanked them on with hands that wouldn’t stop trembling. Jane’s voice still rang in my ears. That single word—don’t—as raw and broken as everything we used to be. I tried calling her line, but she kept ignoring my calls.

Michael arrived in under ten minutes, like a ghost summoned by crisis. He didn’t knock. He didn’t need to. He already knew. The compound wasn’t that large, and with the way I’d shouted her name—shouted Jane—the whole house probably knew.

He found me seated on the edge of the bed, shirtless, my skin still slick with sweat—the kind that wasn’t from pleasure but from panic. My eyes were locked on the mirror ahead, but I wasn’t really looking. All I could see was her face, twisted in disbelief. A memory already calcifying into guilt.

Michael lingered by the door, his presence steady and silent. We didn’t need words. He’d pieced the story together the moment he heard footsteps storming away from the master suite. That was the thing about Michael—he paid attention.

“She went east,” I murmured, my voice stripped of emotion, barely audible over the quiet hum of the air conditioner.

I didn’t turn to look at him. I didn’t need to. He was already in position—alert, focused—like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

“She didn’t take her car,” I added, slower this time, as if the words were dragging themselves through a swamp of regret. “She must have flagged down a cab. I need to know where she goes. I need eyes on her.”

Michael didn’t flinch. No questions. No hesitation. Just that quiet nod—the kind that carried the weight of absolute loyalty.

“Keep your distance. She can’t feel it,” I said, tightening my jaw. “Discreet surveillance only.”

Another nod. A flicker of understanding. And then he was gone, the door closing behind him without a sound.

And with that, he was gone—already dialing, already moving, already blending into the quiet chaos I had created.

It took him only hours to confirm what I feared.

“She’s at The Musk,” he reported the next morning, standing near the grand bay windows of my office, the Manhattan skyline a blur behind him. “She’s staying in the executive wing.”

“Surveillance?”

“I’ve handled it. I paid the assistant manager, Derick Raul. Twenty grand wired through a clean shell account. She’s being watched discreetly. I’ll get you logs of her movements, deliveries, and calls. No cameras inside the room. We couldn’t swing that, not without tipping someone off.”

I leaned back in my chair, my heart a cold lump in my chest. “Good.”

But none of it felt right. None of this ever did.

Two days after everything fell apart, Julia made her move—not just into my apartment, but into my business, staking her claim like she owned every corner of it.

She sauntered into the living room wearing one of Jane’s old robes, as if draping herself in the remnants of a life she had shattered was some kind of twisted victory. With a languid stretch, she settled onto the couch like a cat who’d just found the sunniest spot in the house—completely at ease, utterly satisfied.

“She’ll come back,” she said, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder. “She always does. You just have to wait out her pride.”

"She won’t. I already texted her… told her it’s probably best we get a divorce," I muttered, the words bitter on my tongue, tasting of cowardice and consequence.

Julia’s brows furrowed for a fleeting second, then smoothed into something smug. “Oh really?” Her voice was syrupy-sweet, but I caught the sharpness beneath it—the blade behind the velvet. “That’s great.”

She walked slowly across the room, barefoot on the marble floor, each step deliberate, like a queen finally claiming her throne. Her silk robe fluttered slightly with the movement, revealing more skin than it concealed. The same skin that had once lain tangled in my sheets while my wife stood shattered at the doorway.

“I knew you’d come around,” she said, settling on the edge of the chaise like she belonged there. “It was only a matter of time.”

I looked away. Her perfume was thick in the air, too familiar now, too heavy. The room suddenly felt smaller. Suffocating.

“This isn’t what I wanted,” I said, though the words sounded weak, pathetic even, spoken more to the room than to her. “It’s not how I planned any of this.”

Julia let out a low, mocking laugh. “Cut the act, Nathan. Don’t sit there playing the victim. You wanted this—maybe even more than I did. You just didn’t have the guts to admit it until now. We’ve been tangled up in this secret for months, behind Jane’s back, and you never once complained.”

My jaw clenched. She always knew how to twist the knife, and worse—she always smiled while doing it.

“You’re carrying my child,” I said, shifting the subject because I couldn’t bear the weight of my own guilt. “You said it’s a boy.”

Julia’s hand drifted to her stomach in a practiced motion, like she was playing a role she’d been rehearsing for months. “Yes. Your son.” She looked up at me, her expression unreadable. “Our son.”

The words hit me harder than I expected. There was a tremor under my skin, a pulse of something I couldn’t quite name. Guilt? Dread? Responsibility? Maybe all of it.

“And what do you want, Julia?” I asked, finally meeting her gaze. “Now that Jane’s gone and we’ve set this train on fire… what does happily ever after look like for you?”

Julia tilted her head, her smile flickering like a candle in the wind. “I want what I’ve always wanted. You. Us. No more hiding, no more shame. Just the life we were meant to have, Nathan.”

I exhaled, slow and shaky. My reflection in the window stared back at me—haunted, older somehow. Worn down—the kind of man who had everything and shattered it with his own hands.

“Jane won’t just vanish,” I murmured, voice heavy with regret. “She’s not the type to stay broken. She’ll fight.”

Julia smirked, eyes cold as steel. “Let her try.”

** Days Later — Michael’s Report

Michael’s voice crackled softly in my earpiece, steady and controlled—an anchor amid the storm raging inside me.

“Mr. Frank, I’m live on the audio feed from the bug planted in Jane’s suite.”

I sank back into the chair, the room heavy with silence, nerves stretched tight like a wire about to snap.

“Andrew Dole arrived at exactly 8:41 p.m. He knocked several times, firm, deliberate. Jane hesitated before opening the door.”

“They’ve been talking for about fifteen minutes. The tone is intense but measured. I’m enhancing the feed to catch everything.”

Static flickered briefly, then words cut through with sharp precision.

“If I’m doing this,” Jane’s voice was steady, resolute, “then I need your word. Not just that you’ll protect me, but that you’ll deliver justice.”

“You have my word,” Andrew replied quietly, “This isn’t a game to me either.”

Michael’s voice returned, crisp and professional: “Andrew has just left. Minutes later, two men arrived in a black sedan. They parked nearby and lingered without approaching the building. Their connection to Andrew is unconfirmed.”

I swallowed hard, every muscle taut. “Keep the feed open. Alert me immediately if anything changes.”

“Understood, Mr. Frank.”

Then, the line went quiet.