No Heir For The Cheating Billionaire

The revolving glass door pushed against Hadley's shoulder, heavy and slow, as if trying to resist the storm she was bringing inside. Rain slicked the marble floors of the Tribeca lobby, and she shrugged the dripping trench coat from her shoulders, the expensive wool suddenly feeling like a lead weight on her arm.

She kept her head down, avoiding the polite, questioning gaze of the concierge. His job was to know every face, and hers was not one he would recognize from the building's roster of residents.

The VIP elevator bank was tucked away in a discreet alcove. She walked toward it, her heels making no sound on the thick Persian rug. Her fingers, cold and numb, dug into the depths of her Hermès bag until they closed around the cool, sharp edges of a black key card. A spare. Copied months ago from the one Cleveland kept in the glove compartment of his car, for a day she hoped would never come.

She held her breath as she pressed the card against the sensor. An agonizing second passed. Then, a small green light blinked, and the brushed steel doors slid open with a soft, expensive sigh.

Inside, she pressed the button for the penthouse. 42.

The elevator shot upward. Her stomach lurched, a sickening knot of dread tightening in her gut. The feeling was so intense it was almost physical, a cold fist clenching around her organs.

Ding.

The doors opened onto a dimly lit hallway. The air was thick and warm, and the silence was absolute. Her footsteps were swallowed by the plush carpet as she walked toward the double mahogany doors at the end of the hall.

And then she smelled it.

Chanel No. 5.

It wasn't her scent. It was cloying, aggressive, and it hung in the air like a declaration. Her fingers, reaching for the keypad, froze mid-air. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, trapped bird.

She took a shaky breath and typed in Cleveland's birthday. 0-8-1-2.

A red light flashed. Access Denied.

She bit down on her lower lip, the metallic taste of blood a sharp sting on her tongue. Of course. He wouldn't be that careless. Or maybe he would.

Her fingers trembled as she typed in a new set of numbers. A birthday she'd seen splashed across the gossip pages a dozen times. The birthday of the actress Seraphina. 1-1-0-5.

Click.

The lock disengaged. The light turned green.

The door was open.

She pushed it just enough to create a crack, a sliver of an opening into her husband's other life. Across the living room, the floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the glittering skyline of Manhattan, the Empire State Building a distant, indifferent jewel.

Her eyes dropped to the floor of the entryway.

A pair of Christian Louboutin heels, studded with crystals, were kicked carelessly to the side. Red soles up.

She stepped over them, her body moving on autopilot. A man's custom suit jacket was tossed over the arm of the sofa. She recognized the fabric, the cut. She'd picked it out for him on Savile Row last month. An anniversary gift.

From the direction of the bedroom, a woman's laugh-low and throaty-slithered through the air. It felt like a physical blow, a needle-sharp pain that shot directly into her eardrum.

She forced herself to breathe. Slow, shallow breaths. She moved toward the master bedroom door, which was slightly ajar. Each step felt like wading through cement.

Through the gap, she could see the warm glow of a bedside lamp. Two figures were tangled on the bed.

Cleveland's broad, naked back was all she could see of him. He was leaning over someone, his head bent down, his lips moving against the woman beneath him.

Seraphina's manicured fingers were threaded through his dark hair, her voice a breathy whisper as she moaned his name.

The world tilted. A wave of dizziness washed over Hadley, so powerful she had to brace herself against the wall. Tears burned at the back of her eyes, hot and immediate.

No. Not here.

She dug the nails of her right hand into the soft flesh of her left palm. Harder. The sharp, grounding pain cut through the nausea. It was a trade. Physical pain for emotional control. She welcomed it.

Slowly, deliberately, she pulled her iPhone from her pocket. She didn't try to photograph the bed; the lighting was too dim, the angle too obscured for a clear shot. Instead, she activated the voice memo app on her phone, her thumb pressing down hard on the screen. She hit record to capture the unmistakable, breathy sounds of Seraphina moaning his name, intertwined with his low, husky responses. Then, stepping back quietly toward the entryway, her eyes fixed on the floor. She bent down, picked up one of the crystal-studded Christian Louboutin heels, and slipped it into the depths of her Hermès bag. It was the undeniable physical and digital proof of her shattered marriage.

She slipped the phone back into her pocket. She didn't make a sound as she backed away, turning and walking out of the apartment the same way she came in.

Back on the street, the rain was coming down in sheets, plastering her hair to her face. But she didn't feel the cold. She felt nothing at all.

She pulled out her phone again, her thumb scrolling through her contacts until she found the number for the property manager of their Hamptons estate.

He answered on the first ring.

"This is Hadley Jacobson," she said, her voice devoid of any emotion. "I need you to do something for me immediately. Shut it all down. The water, the electricity. All of it. Yes, right now."

She ended the call without waiting for a reply and let her hand fall to her side. The party Cleveland was hosting for his partners tonight was officially over. So was her pretense of a happy marriage.