My Husband Flirted with His Secretary in French,but I Spoke Eight Languages

2.

The moment I said it, the person on the other end could barely contain himself.

"Miss, you're finally willing to come back? When will you arrive?"

"It'll be a few days yet."

"First, I need you to pull every one of my husband Craig Henson's itineraries from his business trips to France."

"Rest assured, Miss. Whitfield holds a large stake in his company—it's practically your subsidiary. Checking his itinerary is easy enough."

Within minutes, Nathan sent me a document.

"Miss, these are Craig's records from every trip to France over the past two years."

I opened it and read, my brow tightening.

I'd expected the worst, but the depth of what he and Lucille had been carrying on still caught me off guard.

In the last six months alone, they'd booked hotel rooms over a hundred times.

Which meant they'd spent more than half of that time sleeping together.

There were also Craig's spending records on Lucille.

Designer bags, expensive jewelry, and more.

Altogether it came to over two million.

And keep in mind, Craig's company brought in less than ten million a year in total revenue.

"Miss, shall I draft a divorce agreement?"

"In a case like his, you could demand he walk away with nothing, and from Whitfield's position, we could make him compensate for every loss."

I closed the document.

Slowly I shook my head, my gaze cold.

"No rush. Let's play with them for a while first."

That afternoon I went to the supermarket.

Then home.

I had just finished cooking when I heard the door open.

Right on cue, I started the recording.

Craig and Lucille walked in laughing, looking at some medical report and chatting in French.

"Craig, our baby is so tiny right now. The doctor says it's only the size of a soybean."

Craig smiled tenderly.

"Then we'll just wait patiently for it to grow."

"Let's eat first. We can look at it slowly later."

They had just sat down when Craig noticed a pair of chopsticks was missing.

He frowned and looked toward me in the kitchen.

"Vanessa, there are three of us. Why did you only set out two pairs of chopsticks?"

"Go get another pair for Lucy!"

I said flatly,

"I'm under no obligation to wait on outsiders."

At that, Craig slapped his chopsticks down on the table.

"Vanessa, how many times have I told you—Lucy is not an outsider!"

I gave a cold laugh.

"True enough. You two are glued together every day. For all I know you're already man and wife."

That only made Craig angrier.

"Enough! When are you going to rein in this jealousy of yours?!"

"When are you going to learn something from Lucy—learn what it means to be tolerant!"

I pulled off my apron and threw it onto a chair.

"Sorry. I can't learn it, and I don't want to."

At that, Craig shot to his feet.

He was about to speak when the report slipped out of his hand.

It drifted down and landed right on the dining table.

At the bottom, the words "eight weeks pregnant" were plain to see.

Craig snatched it back at once.

Guilt flashed across his face, thinking I hadn't seen the patient's name.

"Vanessa, don't read into it. Lucy went in earlier because she wasn't feeling well. That report belongs to someone else—I picked up the wrong one."

I laughed coldly inside, and said mildly,

"Oh, is that so?"

Seeing my expression stay cold, he snapped,

"What, you don't believe me?!"

Lucille quickly cut in. "Vanessa, Craig has never once betrayed you. I can vouch for that!"

I let out a faint laugh.

"You?"

"Yes, me."

"And who do you think you are?"

At that, Lucille's face turned ugly.

Craig lost his temper on the spot, grabbed a pair of chopsticks and hurled them at me.

"Vanessa, don't push your luck!"

"Don't forget—everything you eat and drink comes from my company!"

"Apologize to Lucy, or you can forget about this month's bonus!"

Behind him, Lucille wore a smug little smile, though her words said,

"Craig, don't be angry. I won't hold it against Vanessa."

I wiped away the splash of broth on my temple and gave a scornful smile.

"I don't want it anyway."

With that, I ignored his cursing and walked into the second bedroom.

I opened my phone.

"Nathan, back up a copy of Lucy's hospital examination records from today."

In just a few minutes, he sent it over.

The report read:

Lucille Pruitt.

Two months pregnant. Fetus healthy.