Prologue
My husband was cold in bed. Borderline asexual. And a germaphobe so extreme it bordered on clinical.
He didn't just limit us to sex once a month — I had to *request* it. And even then, he made me scrub myself down three times, inside and out, before he'd lay a finger on me.
But on my thirtieth birthday, I found a full box of used condoms in his passenger seat. And a bottle of perfume — cheap, sweet, the kind a young girl would wear.
When I confronted him, he turned the steering wheel with practiced ease. Didn't even flinch.
"I lent the car to Sawyer a couple days ago."
I didn't say a word. I turned around and called his executive assistant instead. That's how I found out about the new receptionist at the company.
Wesley's voice dropped low on the other end of the line.
"Mrs. Lockhart, I've seen him kiss her feet. He shares takeout with her from the same container. And word is… she might be pregnant."
A pause.
"You were good to me once. I couldn't stand watching you be the last to know."
I hung up. Then I sat down and calmly drafted a divorce agreement.
Trevor Lockhart, we're done.
Chapter 1
The next morning, I went straight to the top floor of Lockhart Group.
Wesley Wynn, his executive assistant, went pale the second he saw me.
I glanced toward Trevor's office. Files were scattered all over the floor.
Trevor Lockhart — the man who would burn his own clothes if a stranger so much as brushed his sleeve — had a woman pinned beneath him on the floor, kissing her like he couldn't get enough.
A soft moan slipped out. The woman lifted her eyes and met mine. Not a flicker of fear in them.
I knew that face. Two months ago, she'd been a brand-new intern. She'd bumped into me, knocked my purse to the floor, and bowed over and over again, terrified.
"You poor thing," I murmured to Wesley, then pushed the door open and walked right in.
*Bang.*
The door slammed against the stopper.
The two of them jerked apart.
I figured — caught red-handed like this — Trevor would at least panic. Try to explain. Show some flicker of shame.
He didn't.
He just frowned at me, confused.
"I told you. You're supposed to change into sterile clothing before you come into my office."
For six years, I'd lived by one rule: nothing on earth mattered more than keeping his world spotless.
Apparently, I'd been wasting my time.
Because that young girl's sweat was smeared all over him, and he didn't care one bit.
Yvonne Quincey's clothes were halfway off, her cheeks burning red. "Mrs. Lockhart, please — it's a misunderstanding. I was dropping off files and I tripped. Mr. Lockhart was just helping me up."
She was talking to me, but her eyes were locked on Trevor, watching for his reaction.
A girl seven years younger than me. Young. Fresh. And too stupid to know when to shut up.
I ignored her and threw the divorce papers in Trevor's face.
Freshly printed. Still carrying that faint smell of ink.
Trevor's frown deepened. He had to hate that smell. In our house, nothing reached him without being wiped down with disinfectant first.
His eyes flicked to the papers on the floor. He sighed, exasperated.
"Evangeline, I've told you. That stuff belongs to Sawyer. Will you stop making a scene?"
Sawyer Sheridan was his cousin. One of the few people he counted as a friend.
But he forgot one thing while he was lying. Sawyer had been out of the country for three months. And Trevor never lent his car to anyone — too dirty for him.
Well. He wasn't the only one with a thing about dirty. A cheating marriage felt pretty filthy to me too.
"Sign it. Divorce me. This is the cleanest way out for both of us."
I didn't budge an inch. He laughed — that ugly, furious kind of laugh.
"Why bother? You know my parents and my grandfather will never agree to it."
"I haven't looked at another woman since we got married. This was one time."
"Just do your job as Mrs. Lockhart. Look the other way. Is that really so hard?"
So now I was supposed to be grateful. Grateful that he'd only cheated with one woman.
He turned to Yvonne, his voice instantly going soft. "Go rest. Don't worry. I'll handle this."
But Yvonne stepped forward instead. Her tangled hair fell back, exposing a stretch of throat covered in bite marks.
"Mrs. Lockhart, please don't be angry with him. It's all my fault."
Of course it was her fault. She'd crawled into someone else's marriage. Was I supposed to comfort her now?
*Smack.*
Before she could finish, my hand cracked across her face.
"Nobody asked you to talk."
Yvonne froze, stunned. She cupped her cheek, eyes flooding with tears.
Trevor and Wesley, still standing in the doorway, both went rigid.
Because they were used to seeing me composed in front of the most violent patients on the table. Steady hands, steady voice. Always.
Once the shock passed, Yvonne went limp and collapsed straight into Trevor's arms. She sobbed without holding anything back, smearing foundation and lipstick all over the front of his shirt.
Trevor flinched — but he held her. Patient. Soothing. His eyes full of tenderness for her.
Watching it, I remembered something.
Because Trevor couldn't stand "dirty," I'd gone bare-faced for six years. No makeup. Not even on our wedding day.
"Have you lost your mind? Do you even know what you're doing?"
I met his furious glare and smiled — wide, ugly, cruel.
"Doing my job as Mrs. Lockhart."
"The Lockhart family does not allow a mistress through the front door."
