After My Husband Cheated, I Married His Greatest Rival

The rain did not just fall; it assaulted the glass.

Vivian Sterling stood before the floor-to-ceiling window of the master bedroom in the Kensington estate, her reflection a pale ghost against the darkness outside. The antique clock on the wall, a wedding gift from her mother-in-law that ticked louder than a heartbeat, struck two in the morning.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

It was the sound of her life wasting away.

Twin beams of light sliced through the storm, illuminating the long, winding driveway. The gravel crunched under heavy tires. He was home.

Vivian closed her eyes for a single second. She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with the sterile, conditioned air of the room, and when she exhaled, she was no longer Vivi the woman. She was Vivian Kensington, the wife. Her facial muscles, trained over three years of rigorous discipline, shifted into a soft, welcoming smile. It was a mask made of flesh and bone, but it felt as heavy as iron.

The front door slammed downstairs. Heavy footsteps echoed on the marble stairs.

The bedroom door swung open.

Julian Kensington brought the storm in with him. His suit was damp, his hair disheveled, and the smell of expensive scotch clung to him like a second skin. He didn't look at her. He never really looked at her anymore. To him, she was just a fixture in the room, like the clock or the curtains.

"You're still up," he muttered, shrugging off his suit jacket. He held it out without turning his head, expecting her to be there.

She was always there.

Vivian stepped forward, her bare feet silent on the plush carpet. She took the jacket. The fabric was cold and damp against her fingertips.

"It was storming," she said softly. "I couldn't sleep."

"I had a late meeting. Don't ask." Julian loosened his tie, his movements jerky and impatient.

Vivian turned to hang the jacket on the valet stand. That was when she saw it.

It was a single strand of hair.

It was caught on the dark wool of his collar, glowing like a filament of gold wire under the recessed lighting. It was long. Much longer than hers. And it was blonde. Vivian's hair was a deep, rich chestnut.

Her breath hitched in her throat, a tiny, fractured sound that the rain swallowed.

She leaned in closer, just an inch. The scent hit her then. It wasn't just scotch and rain. Underneath the masculine notes, there was something cloying. Something sweet. Vanilla and heavy musk.

Midnight Rose.

It was a perfume she knew. She had seen the bottle in magazines. It was young, aggressive, and desperate for attention.

Bile rose in her throat, hot and acidic. Her stomach twisted into a knot so tight it was physically painful. Her fingers trembled as she plucked the golden hair from the collar. It felt like holding a razor blade.

"Vivian? Water," Julian commanded from the other side of the room.

She dropped the hair into the pocket