The Ice Queen's Secret Superstar Husband

Arther Knowles pushed open the heavy double doors of the presidential suite at the Beverly Hills Hotel.

He walked into the massive living room and shrugged off his suit jacket. He threw the expensive fabric onto the velvet sofa. He looked exhausted.

He walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows. He reached up, yanked his tie loose, and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his dress shirt. He stared down at the glowing city lights of Los Angeles.

The doorbell rang. It was a sharp, frantic sound.

Arther's jaw tightened. He turned away from the window, walked to the door, and pulled it open.

Simon Adler, his manager, shoved his way into the room. He was holding his phone up like a trophy, a massive grin on his face.

"You broke the internet," Simon said, speaking a mile a minute. "And you won't believe who you broke it with."

Arther rolled his eyes. He hated tabloid garbage. He turned his back on Simon and walked over to the marble wet bar. He grabbed a crystal glass and a bottle of expensive whiskey.

Simon followed him. He shoved the phone screen directly into Arther's line of sight.

"It's Katy Riddle," Simon yelled.

Arther's hand stopped moving. The whiskey bottle hovered over the glass.

He slowly set the bottle down. He turned his head and took the phone from Simon's hand.

He looked at the screen. The video was playing on a loop.

Arther watched Katy sitting in the audience. He saw the way her eyes devoured him. He saw the desperate, hungry look she tried so hard to hide behind her cold exterior.

A soft, genuine smile broke across Arther's face. He raised his thumb and gently stroked the glass over Katy's face.

Simon kept talking, rambling about engagement metrics and box office projections.

Then, the video reached the final second. The camera panned slightly, zooming in on Katy's raised hand.

Arther's body went completely rigid. The smile vanished from his face. His dark eyes widened in pure shock.

He dragged the progress bar back. He paused the video. He zoomed in on the high-definition image of her wrist. Resting right beneath the glaring diamonds was a frayed, black braided string bracelet with a distinct, tarnished silver bead.

Arther closed his eyes.

His brain violently ripped him back to a chaotic airport terminal five years ago. He was surrounded by screaming fans. A girl in a black mask and thick glasses had been crushed against the barricade. When the crowd surged, she had dropped that exact same handmade bracelet right at his feet. He had picked it up, but she had already disappeared into the sea of people.

Arther opened his eyes. The shock morphed into something sharp and dangerous. He tilted his head slightly to the left, analyzing the pieces falling into place.

He handed the phone back to Simon. His voice was terrifyingly calm. "Where is this video now?"

"Dropping fast," Simon complained. "Riddle's PR team is throwing millions at X to kill the hashtag. They're burying it."

Arther let out a low, dark laugh. The sound echoed in the quiet room.

She was terrified. His beautiful, cold wife was terrified of being caught.

"Do you want our team to push it back up?" Simon asked, his fingers hovering over his screen.

Arther picked up his whiskey glass. He took a slow sip. The burn felt incredible.

"No," Arther said. "Do nothing. Let her bury it."

Simon looked confused, but he nodded and backed out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

Arther stood alone in the suite. He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed his private security lead.

"I need you to pull the archived security footage from LAX, Terminal 4, exactly five years ago today," Arther ordered, his voice tight. "Find a girl in a black mask and thick glasses by the barricade. Track her movements, cross-reference her with any social media posts tagged at that location and time. I want a name or a handle."

Ten minutes later, his phone chimed with a secure file. Arther opened it. The digital trail was flawless, leading directly to a massive fan account. He opened the X app. He typed in the handle staring back at him from the report: Chi-Chi_Knowles.

The profile loaded. The newest tweet had been posted exactly two minutes ago. It was just a string of random, panicked keyboard smashes.

Arther stared at the screen. He pictured Katy sitting in the back of her car, furiously typing, completely unaware that her husband was watching her every move.

Arther threw his head back and downed the rest of the whiskey. A massive, victorious smile stretched across his face.

The hunt was on.