Cheated On Me? I Married a Tycoon

Ayla sat in the driver's seat of her parked Porsche, her fingers hovering over the steering wheel.

She had just dialed her best friend Chloe's number when a text message popped up on her screen.

It was from Axel.

If you don't show up to the Silicon Valley Innovation Summit tonight, I will freeze every credit card and trust account tied to your name within sixty seconds.

Ayla stared at the glowing words. Her breathing hitched.

She closed her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. She needed cash to hire a ruthless divorce lawyer. If he cut her off now, she would be paralyzed.

She shifted the car into drive and forced herself to turn the steering wheel toward San Francisco.

By evening, Ayla stepped out of a black town car in front of the Moscone Center.

She wore a minimalist, custom-tailored black evening gown that clung to her curves, looking every bit the untouchable billionaire's wife.

Axel was already waiting at the entrance of the VIP red carpet lane.

The second he saw her, his face transformed. The angry tyrant from the morning vanished, replaced by a mask of overwhelming, sickening devotion.

He stepped forward and wrapped his arm around her waist.

His fingers dug into her ribs so hard a sharp pain shot up her spine.

"Smile," Axel whispered directly into her ear, his breath hot against her skin. "Don't you dare ruin the company's stock rating for next week."

The heavy double doors to the red carpet swung open.

A wall of blinding camera flashes exploded in their faces. Reporters screamed their names.

Ayla's facial muscles shifted instantly. She flashed the flawless, untouchable smile she had perfected as a top-tier PR strategist.

Axel stopped right in the middle of the red carpet.

He reached into his tuxedo pocket and pulled out a custom velvet Cartier jewelry box.

A collective gasp rippled through the press line.

Axel opened the box, took out a blinding, multi-million-dollar diamond necklace, and stepped behind Ayla to fasten it around her neck.

The cameras fired like machine guns. Reporters shouted praises about the Farrell CEO's legendary love for his wife.

Axel leaned in and kissed her cheek. Ayla smiled for the lenses, but her stomach violently cramped with nausea.

They walked off the carpet and entered the massive, glittering ballroom.

Within seconds, Axel was swarmed by a group of Wall Street investors.

Ayla immediately stepped backward, retreating into the shadows near the edge of the room. She grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and watched Axel play the crowd.

From across the room, she noticed something.

A faint vibration buzzed in the breast pocket of Axel's tuxedo.

Axel pulled out his private phone. He glanced at the screen, and his entire demeanor shifted. His eyes darkened with a specific kind of hunger.

He offered a quick, charming apology to the investors and turned away, walking briskly toward the staff corridors at the back of the venue.

Ayla set her champagne glass down on a high-top table.

She knew the layout of the Moscone Center perfectly. She had designed the PR security routes for this exact event.

She slipped through the crowd, staying completely out of sight, and followed him.

She navigated through the noisy, chaotic kitchen hallways until she reached the dimly lit VIP lounge sector.

At the end of the corridor, one of the heavy lounge doors was left slightly ajar.

Low, breathy laughter echoed from the crack in the door.

Ayla slowed her steps. She pressed her back against the cold wall and slid closer, peering through the narrow gap.

Inside the lounge, Axel had a woman pinned against the back of a leather sofa. He was kissing her aggressively.

The woman was wearing a plunging red evening gown.

It was Kristal. The brilliant, beautiful Director of Overseas Operations for the Farrell Group.

Kristal giggled and pushed Axel back slightly. She ran her manicured fingers down his jawline.

"You were a little too convincing on the red carpet out there," Kristal complained, pouting her lips.

Axel let out a dark, mocking laugh. "It's just PR for the old fossils on the board. Ayla is nothing but a prop."

Outside the door, Ayla felt like a sledgehammer had just caved in her ribs.

It wasn't just the physical betrayal. It was the complete, utter destruction of her human dignity.

Her hands were shaking so violently she could barely grip her phone.

She pulled it out, switched it to video mode, and held the lens up to the crack in the door.

She recorded ten seconds of them tangled together on the sofa. Clear, undeniable proof.

Ayla hit stop. She slipped the phone back into her clutch.

She didn't kick the door open. She didn't scream.

She turned around and walked back down the hallway, her footsteps completely silent.

When Ayla stepped back into the blinding lights of the ballroom, the pain in her chest was gone.

Her eyes were dead, filled with nothing but cold, calculating murder.