After My Husband Cheated, I Married His Greatest Rival

Hospital lights were offensive. They were too bright, too white, too revealing.

Vivian woke up to the smell of antiseptic. She tried to sit up, but a sharp pain in her lower back pinned her down.

"Careful," a nurse said, rushing over. "You have severe bruising and a minor concussion. You need to stay still."

"Who brought me here?" Vivian croaked. Her throat felt like sandpaper.

"A Mr. Vance," the nurse said, checking her chart. "He paid for a private suite. He left about an hour ago."

Vance. It hadn't been a dream. The enemy had saved her.

The door banged open.

Julian walked in. He was holding a bouquet of white lilies. Expensive, elegant lilies.

He had forgotten, or never cared to remember, that lilies made her sneeze. They were the default "apology flower" his assistant ordered.

"You really did a number on yourself, didn't you?" he said, tossing the flowers onto the bedside table.

Vivian stared at him. "You pushed me."

"I didn't push you," Julian said instantly. "You slipped. Don't rewrite history, Vivian. It makes you sound crazy."

Gaslighting. It was his second language.

"Why are you here, Julian?"

"To take you home, obviously. Mom is furious. The police called the house about the car. It looks bad for the family."

"The family," Vivian repeated bitterly. "Always the family."

Julian checked his phone, ignoring her pain. "I have a meeting in an hour. Can you walk?"

"I can walk," Vivian said coldly.

She discharged herself against medical advice. The drive home was silent. When they got to the estate, Julian threw his jacket—a grey bespoke suit—onto the sofa.

"I have a call," he said, heading to his study.

Vivian stood in the living room. She looked at the jacket. The events of the last few days crashed over her. The betrayal. The humiliation. The push.

She waited until the study door closed.

She walked to the kitchen and opened the junk drawer. She pulled out the heavy-duty fabric shears.

She walked back to the sofa.

She picked up the jacket. It smelled of Midnight Rose. Scarlett had been hugging him.

Snip.

The sound was satisfying. The sharp blades sliced through the Italian wool.

Snip. Riiiiiip.

She cut the sleeves off. She cut the collar. She stabbed the scissors through the back, right where the label was.

She shredded it. She turned the five-thousand-dollar garment into confetti.

She gathered the pieces and walked to the garage. She opened the industrial trash compactor they used for estate waste.

She threw the scraps in.

She pressed the green button.

Whirrrr. CRUNCH.

The machine groaned as it crushed the fabric into a dense, unrecognizable cube.

Vivian went upstairs and climbed into bed. When Julian came to bed hours later, he didn't notice the missing suit. He just rolled over and went to sleep.

The next morning, Julian was frantically searching the living room.

"Have you seen my grey suit? I need it for today," he called out.

Vivian sat at the breakfast table, sipping her coffee. She smiled over the rim of her cup. It was a terrifying smile.

"I threw it away," she said pleasantly.

"What?" Julian frowned, walking into the dining room. "Why?"

"It had a stain," Vivian said. "A nasty, cheap stain. I couldn't get it out. So I got rid of the whole thing."

Julian stared at her. "You're acting weird, Vivian."

"I'm just cleaning house, Julian," she said. "Just cleaning house."