Reborn To Ruin My Billionaire Husband

Eleanor Faulkner's office was on the 50th floor of a skyscraper in Midtown, with a view that swallowed Central Park whole. The room was minimalist, all glass and steel, reflecting a woman who dealt in hard, clean facts. "The Cooper family trust is ironclad," Eleanor said, her perfectly manicured fingers skimming over the financial statements Kirsten had provided. "We'll never touch Damon's inheritance. But his earnings, the assets acquired during the marriage... that's a different story. We can argue for fifty percent of the marital estate." Kirsten sat opposite her, her posture ramrod straight. "I just want what I'm entitled to. And I want out. Quickly." Eleanor leaned back, her sharp, intelligent eyes assessing Kirsten. "Most wives in your position want to drag it out. They want retribution. They want to make him pay, not just in dollars, but in time and misery." Kirsten's hand went to her wedding ring, a cold, heavy weight on her finger. "I don't want his retribution money, Eleanor," she said, her voice tight with an emotion that went beyond simple anger. "I just want a clean break. I need to get out of that house before this situation destroys me completely." The strange intensity in her voice made Eleanor pause, but her professional mask didn't slip. "To expedite things, and to give us leverage on alimony, we need proof of infidelity. Concrete proof. Photos, videos, texts. Something a judge can't ignore." She pushed a slim folder across the polished desk. Kirsten took it. The image of Jasmin, draped in Damon's coat, leaning against his shoulder, flashed in her mind. "I'll get it," she said, her voice as cold as the glass walls around them. Leaving the law firm, the city felt different. The towering buildings no longer felt like monuments to ambition, but like cages. Her phone buzzed. It was her best friend, Thea Coleman. "Kris, what the hell is this I'm hearing?" Thea's voice was a shriek. "Moira called my housekeeper. You let some homeless girl move into your house? Have you lost your mind?" Kirsten watched the blur of yellow cabs streak past her window. "It's a strategy, Thea. I need them to get comfortable. I need them to think I'm weak." "Weak? Kirsten, he's walking all over you!" "Let him," Kirsten said. "The higher he thinks he is, the harder he'll fall." When she pulled back through the gates of the estate, the sound of laughter drifted from the back garden. It was a light, feminine giggle, followed by Damon's low chuckle. Her stomach twisted. She parked the car and walked around the side of the house, her heels sinking slightly into the soft grass. She pushed open the wrought-iron gate to the rose garden and froze. The scene was sickeningly domestic. Damon was lounging on a chaise, and Jasmin was sitting on his lap. Not beside him. On him. She was feeding him a strawberry, her fingers brushing his lips. His hand rested possessively on her waist, his thumb stroking the bare skin where her shirt had ridden up. Kirsten's breath hitched. The air, thick with the scent of roses, suddenly felt unbreathable. It was the same feeling she'd had on the delivery table, the feeling of her lungs refusing to work. Jasmin saw her first. She let out a theatrical gasp and scrambled off Damon's lap, her cheeks flushing. Damon shot to his feet, his face darkening into a thunderous scowl. He looked at Kirsten not with guilt, but with pure annoyance, as if she were an intruder who had stumbled upon a private moment. "Why are you sneaking around?" he demanded, his voice a low growl. The accusation was so absurd it was almost funny. "This is my garden, Damon. I live here." She looked at the crushed strawberry staining Jasmin's fingertips, the bright red smear like a drop of blood. "Jasmin suffers from severe PTSD," Damon said, stepping in front of her again, that familiar, protective stance. "She needs companionship. Don't twist this into something sordid." Kirsten almost laughed out loud. PTSD? Was that the new term for adultery? "I understand," she said, her voice dripping with an irony he completely missed. "Psychological trauma often requires... physical comfort." Jasmin seized her cue, her eyes welling up with tears. She pressed a hand to her chest, her breathing suddenly shallow. "Damon, I... I feel an attack coming on..." Instantly, Damon's attention shifted. He turned his back on Kirsten, wrapping his arms around Jasmin, murmuring soothing words into her hair. He was completely oblivious to his wife standing just a few feet away. Kirsten watched them, a tableau of betrayal. Her own husband comforting his mistress. Slowly, deliberately, she raised her phone. She angled it just so, shielded by a large rose bush. There was no flash, no shutter sound. Just the silent capture of a perfect, damning image. She lowered the phone, turned, and walked back into the house. She opened her encrypted chat with Eleanor Faulkner. She attached the photo. Then she typed two words. Got it.