Chapter 1 - The First Slap
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The first slap happened at 8:47 p.m., beneath a ceiling dripping with crystal chandeliers, in front of nearly three hundred people who knew exactly who I was.
The sound echoed through the Grand Ballroom of the Fifth Avenue hotel like a gunshot. My left cheek burned instantly, a sharp, searing heat spreading across my skin. Around the hem of my silver silk dress, shards of broken champagne glass glittered against the dark carpet.
Nobody moved. Not the Wall Street executives with their hedge fund millions. Not the state senators vying for re-election. Not the Manhattan socialites who spent decades pretending they were far too refined to enjoy a public disaster. Every pair of eyes had locked onto the young blonde woman standing directly in front of me.
Her palm was still raised in the air. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, not with fear, but with exhilaration.
She wore a scarlet designer gown and a diamond necklace that I knew cost almost $400,000 because I had personally approved the wire transfer three months ago. My husband, Grant Mercer, had listed it on the corporate balance sheet as a gift for an overseas investor’s wife.
Apparently, the overseas investor was twenty-four years old, five-foot-seven, and sleeping with him.
She smiled at me, her red lips curling into a cruel sneer.
“My name is Chloe Hart,” she announced loudly, her voice carrying across the silent hall.
I already hated the arrogance dripping from every syllable.
Then she added the blow that was meant to crush me completely.
“And I’m carrying Grant’s baby.”
A collective gasp rippled through the room. Someone behind me whispered a frantic, horrified word.
I didn't blink. I didn't cry. Slowly, I turned my head toward my husband.
Grant stood three feet away in his bespoke black tuxedo. One hand rested nonchalantly in his pocket while the other hovered protectively near Chloe’s waist. His face held no horror, no shame, no remorse.
He just looked annoyed.
“Grant?” I asked, my voice dangerously steady.
He exhaled slowly, adjusting his cufflinks as if I were a minor inconvenience.
“Evelyn, don’t.”
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“Don’t what?”
“Don’t make this uglier than it needs to be.”
