Like she had already rehearsed replacing me.
I opened the photo.
And there it was.
Vanessa stretched across a luxury hotel bed inside the presidential penthouse at The Peninsula Beverly Hills wearing Ethan’s crisp white designer dress shirt half-buttoned over bare skin. Her legs disappeared beneath tangled silk sheets. A silver champagne bucket rested beside the bed with condensation sliding down the bottle like sweat.
The lighting was soft and cinematic.
Deliberate.
Everything about the photo had been arranged to hurt me.
And in the blurred background, half asleep against the pillows, was my husband.
Ethan Whitmore.
CEO.
Forbes cover regular.
Investor favorite.
America’s golden businessman.
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