My CEO Husband's Scandal with His Employee

When I stepped out of the car and into the front yard, the smell hit me immediately—sharp, acrid, unmistakable.

Smoke. My heart dropped to my knees.

“No…” I whispered, breaking into a sprint. The gravel crunched under my heels as my skirts tangled around my ankles. I pushed past the front gate and stumbled toward the backyard—where my art studio stood.

Only it didn’t.

What stood there now was fire. Wild. Unapologetic. Flames flickering from a pile of canvases—my canvases. The ones I had poured years of my soul into. Memories in oil. Dreams in acrylics. All crumbling to ash.

“No!” I screamed, charging forward. My hands, shaking and bare, beat uselessly against the blaze. A gust of heat roared back at me, searing my skin. Sparks snapped like cruel little teeth, and one caught my wrist.

A hiss of pain escaped me. My skin blistered instantly.

Still, I reached into the fire, tugging at the edge of a half-charred canvas—the one Colton had posed for on our first anniversary. It broke apart like wet paper in my fingers.

I staggered back, breath hitching. My vision blurred—not from the smoke but from tears.

My chest heaved. My body shook. I fell to my knees in the dirt, too stunned to scream again.

Why? Why would he do this?

Anger surged like a lightning strike. I stood up, numb and trembling, and stormed into the house.

The laughter hit me like a slap.

I followed it—half in a daze, half seething. The living room lights were warm, too warm, almost mocking. And there they were.

Colton. Beatrice.

Her head was tucked beneath his chin. He stroked her hair with the same hand that once vowed to never touch another woman. They looked… content. Like a scene from a romantic movie.

They froze when they saw me.

Colton pulled back instantly. His smile faltered. “Nadia—hey. I was just… helping her cook something. Look, she’s so sweet—”

“What happened to my paintings?” I cut him off, voice steel.

He blinked. “Oh. That? I burned them. Beatrice needs the art room.”

For a moment, I thought I misheard.

“You what?”

“She’s staying here for a while,” he said casually. “She needs a studio space. And well… we thought she could use your studio. Or maybe you could move into the guest room? She likes the master. Says the light’s better in the morning.”

I stared at him, utterly numb.

And Beatrice stepped forward with a look of fake concern. “I told you, Colton, she’d be mad. It’s okay, Nadia. I’ll find somewhere else—”

“No, of course not,” Colton said, placing a hand on her back. “You’re her best friend. Don’t forget—you’re the reason we even got married.”

That hit harder than the flames ever could.

“She got scammed,” he added, almost bored. “Lost money. Her lease ended. It’s just temporary.”

“Is that it?” I asked softly.

He looked away. “Of course. What else would it be?”

I didn’t answer. The silence between us said it all.

I turned around. “Do whatever you want.”

Because I finally understood—whatever I said wouldn’t matter. He’d already chosen his side. His real home.

I made my way to our bedroom. It already felt foreign, like I was trespassing in a memory that didn’t want me anymore. I walked to the closet, pulled my suitcase from the bottom, and began folding clothes into it with trembling, burnt hands.

I didn’t cry. I couldn’t.

The pain had dried the tears before they could form.

A creak. I froze.

Behind me, the door opened.

“You’re moving?” Beatrice’s voice was syrupy, fake.

I didn’t turn around. “What do you want?”

She came in slowly, like a cat about to toy with a trapped bird.

“Well,” she said, shutting the door behind her, “I guess I don’t have to pretend anymore, right? You saw the video.”

I clenched my jaw. She came closer, pulled out her phone. “Oh, but wait. You haven’t seen this one.”

I didn’t want to look. But I did.

Her. Him. Tangled. Bare. My bedsheets. My room.

My world shattered again.

I turned away, silent. I wouldn’t scream. I wouldn’t let her have that power.

She scoffed. “Still the quiet, pitiful wife, huh? No wonder he got bored.”

I kept packing. She muttered something under her breath, turned toward the dresser. I thought she was leaving.

Instead, she picked up the bottle of isopropyl alcohol on the nightstand and suddenly sprayed it on my burnt wrist.

I screamed—loud, raw.

Pain exploded across my skin. My knees buckled. I collapsed onto the bed, clutching my arm.

“Oops,” she said mockingly. “Did that hurt?”

I shoved her. Hard. Her body slammed into the door just as it opened—revealing a small girl. Maureen. Beatrice’s daughter that I had treated my own but I know better now.

She blinked up at us, wide-eyed.

The girl’s face twisted. “Bad!” she yelled at me, then turned to her mother. “You’re making Mommy cry!”

Before I could defend myself, she picked up the bottle of alcohol—and hurled it at me.

It hit my face directly. The burning liquid drenched my skin. My eyes screamed in agony. I fell, clutching my face, crying out.

“I can’t see—I can’t—I can’t see!”

My vision swam on fire. My world tilted.