The Real Boss Was His Neglected Wife

Dr. Hailey Hogan POV:

I decided to treat myself to dinner at Le Cirque.

I dined alone.

I finished a bottle of red that cost more than Jackson's entire car payment.

When I returned to the Estate, it was past midnight.

The security gate was open.

Careless.

The perimeter lights were off.

Lazy.

I parked my Mercedes in the driveway and strode into the house.

It smelled wrong.

It didn't smell like lemon verbena and antiseptic, the way I demanded it.

It reeked of cheap vanilla and stale sweat.

I ascended the grand staircase, my heels silent on the plush runner.

I reached the Master Suite.

My sanctuary.

The door was ajar.

I pushed it open.

The sight hit me like a physical blow to the gut.

Amber was in my bed.

She was curled up on my Egyptian cotton sheets, wearing one of Jackson's old t-shirts.

My pillows were tucked under her legs.

My duvet was pulled up to her chin.

She was drooling on the silk.

The rage didn't come as fire.

It came as absolute zero.

This was my territory.

This was the one place that was solely mine.

I walked over to the bed.

I didn't yell.

I grabbed the corner of the mattress and heaved with a single, violent motion.

Amber shrieked as she rolled off the bed, hitting the floor with a heavy thud.

"What the hell!" she screamed, scrambling back and clutching the duvet.

Jackson stumbled out of the bathroom, a toothbrush in his mouth.

"Hailey?" he spluttered, toothpaste foaming on his lip. "You're supposed to be in Atlanta for the layover."

"Get her out," I said.

My voice was so quiet it barely registered.

"Babe, calm down," Jackson said, stepping between us, hands raised. "She was tired. The jet... we forgot something, we had to come back for the passports. She just needed to rest."

"In my bed?"

"The guest rooms were dusty," Amber whined from the floor, playing the victim. "I have allergies. You know that, Jackson."

He looked at me, pleading.

"Be reasonable, Hails. She's pregnant. She needs comfort."

"She is a parasite," I stated flatly.

I walked to the linen closet.

I pulled out a heavy-duty trash bag.

I went back to the bed and began stripping the sheets.

I ripped the pillowcases off.

I tore the duvet cover.

I treated the fabric like it was contaminated with Ebola.

"What are you doing?" Jackson asked, his voice rising.

"Sanitizing," I said.

I stuffed the linens into the bag.

"You're acting crazy," Jackson snapped, his face flushing red. "This is why I brought her. She's soft. You're... you're a machine."

"A machine that pays for the roof over your head," I reminded him.

He flinched.

"Pack her bags," I said, tying the trash bag into a knot. "And pack yours. We have an early flight to catch up with the family, right?"

Jackson let out a breath of relief.

He thought I was submitting.

He thought I was falling back in line.

"Yeah," he said, puffing out his chest. "Yeah, okay. Good girl. We'll leave at 6 AM. You can carry the luggage. Amber shouldn't lift anything heavy."

He smirked.

He actually smirked.

"Sure, Jackson," I said, a smile touching my lips.

It was the smile I gave a patient right before I put them under anesthesia.

The last thing they ever saw before the darkness took them.

"I'll handle the luggage."