The Betrayed Wife's Spectacular Sweet Revenge

An hour later, after a brief, furious strategy session with Clara at a dimly lit jazz bar, Alia pushed the heavy double doors of the Manhattan townhouse open.

She took a deep breath, letting the familiar scent of lemon polish and expensive wax fill her lungs. She tossed her car keys into the silver tray on the entryway table. The metal clattered loudly in the quiet foyer.

Laughter echoed from the living room. It was Christy's high-pitched giggle, followed by Jerel's deep chuckle.

The sound made the skin on Alia's arms prickle.

She walked into the living room. Jerel stood up from the velvet sofa immediately. He walked toward her, his arms wide open, his face arranged into the perfect, rehearsed smile of a devoted husband.

He wrapped his arms around her shoulders.

Alia stopped breathing. The scent of Tiffany's expensive floral perfume clung to the lapel of his suit. It mixed with his cologne, creating a smell that made Alia's stomach churn.

Every muscle in her back locked rigid. She forced her hand to lift, patting him twice on the back before stepping out of his grip.

Christy sat on the sofa. She looked Alia up and down, her eyes lingering on the wrinkles in Alia's trench coat.

Christy picked up a stack of glossy brochures from the mahogany coffee table. She slapped them down hard. The heavy paper smacked against the wood.

"Three years, Alia," Christy said. Her voice was sharp. "Three years and this house is still empty. It's time to take this seriously."

Alia looked down at the table. The brochures advertised high-end IVF clinics and invasive fertility treatments.

A cold, hollow sensation spread through Alia's chest.

"You work too much," Christy continued. "You are a machine for Legatum Designs. You need to remember your duty to this family."

Jerel walked over to the bar cart. He poured a glass of red wine and held it out to Alia.

"Mom, take it easy," Jerel said, his voice smooth. He looked at Alia. "But she has a point, honey. Maybe you should cut back your hours. We can go to the clinic together next week."

Alia stared at the glass of wine. She saw Jerel's hand flat against Tiffany's stomach.

She did not take the glass.

"Are you ready to be a father, Jerel?" Alia asked. Her voice was low and entirely devoid of emotion.

Jerel's hand twitched. A drop of red wine spilled onto the carpet. He quickly smoothed his tie with his free hand.

"Of course I am," he said, his eyes shifting to the window for a fraction of a second before meeting hers. "I've been waiting for this."

Alia felt a laugh building in her throat, thick and bitter. She stood up straight, towering over the coffee table.

"I have a major bidding meeting tomorrow morning," Alia said. "I am not looking at clinic brochures."

Christy's face turned red. She slammed her manicured hand against the armrest.

"You are incredibly selfish!" Christy yelled. "The Tucker family needs an heir, and you refuse to cooperate!"

"My body belongs to me," Alia said, her voice cutting through the room like a blade. "I will not be scheduled for procedures I don't want."

Jerel stepped forward. He reached out and grabbed Alia's wrist. His grip was tight.

"Alia, calm down," he warned.

Alia yanked her arm back so hard her shoulder popped.

"I have a headache," she said. She turned her back on them and walked toward the stairs.

Behind her, she heard the sharp crash of porcelain hitting the floor. Christy was screaming at Jerel about Alia's disrespect.

Alia walked into the master bedroom. She pushed the door shut and turned the deadbolt. The lock clicked into place.

She leaned her back against the heavy wood. She opened her mouth and dragged in huge gulps of air. Her chest he heave.

She walked into the walk-in closet. She grabbed the laundry hamper. She pulled every shirt, every pair of pants, every tie Jerel had touched that week off the hangers. She shoved them into the hamper. She pushed it into the far corner of the closet.

She went into the bathroom. She turned the faucet all the way to cold. She cupped the freezing water in her hands and splashed it over her face. The shock of the cold water numbed her skin.

She walked into her private study. She opened her laptop and typed in a long, encrypted password.

She opened a secure browser. She logged into a dark web email portal.

She typed out a message to a high-end private investigator she had used for corporate background checks.

I need a full sweep on Jerel Tucker. Credit card statements, hotel bookings, real estate inquiries. Past twelve months. Expedited.

She hit send.

She looked around the study. She looked at the crown molding, the custom bookshelves, the hardwood floors. She had paid for every single inch of this house with her own money, the day before she signed the marriage license.

Her jaw tightened until her teeth ached. They were not going to get a single dime.