His Faked Infertility, My Sweet Revenge

I made my husband, Damian, the youngest Chief of Surgery in the country. I built his career from scratch, defying my own family to marry him.

Then, he asked me to give our au pair a six-figure salary and a company car.

He called me a cold-hearted bitch when I refused, claiming she was a poor single mother of five. But I saw her wearing my missing diamond bracelet and carrying a Chanel bag worth more than my car.

He flaunted their affair at a professional conference, calling me a "worthless capitalist princess" while she played the victim.

For years, I'd spent a fortune trying to cure his infertility. It was our secret pain. Now, he was using it to justify his affair with a "hyper-fertile" woman he claimed could give him the sons I couldn't.

As he stood on stage for his keynote speech, ready to accept an award, I walked past him to the podium. I had my own presentation to share with the live-streamed global audience-a slideshow of their eight-year affair, complete with hotel receipts and bank transfers.

Chapter 1

Ainsley POV:

My husband, Damian, the man whose career I built from scrap, whose name I elevated from obscurity, just sat across from me at our marble dining table and suggested we give our au pair a six-figure salary.

The candlelight flickered between us, casting long, dancing shadows on his face. He looked earnest, his brow furrowed with a manufactured concern that made my stomach tighten.

"A hundred thousand a year, Ainsley," he said, his voice low and reasonable, as if he were discussing a minor stock purchase. "And a company car. One of the Audis from the corporate fleet."

I set my wine glass down, the soft clink echoing in the sudden silence of the room. I kept my face a perfect, placid mask, the same one I wore in boardrooms when a junior executive presented a flawed projection. "Why?"

He sighed, a theatrical sound of weary compassion. "Casey's had it rough. You know her story. Single mother, five kids, sick parents back home she's supporting. She told me today her ex-husband hasn't paid child support in months. She's thinking of quitting, moving back to her parents' place to find a better paying job."

I let my gaze drift past Damian's shoulder. In the soft light of the living room, I could see Casey. She was ostensibly dusting a bookshelf, but her movements were slow, languid. She was wearing a pair of Lululemon leggings that hugged her curves and a simple white t-shirt that was just a little too tight. Her long, dark hair was piled messily on her head, tendrils escaping to frame a face that was always tilted in a look of gentle, wide-eyed innocence. On the floor beside her was a vintage Chanel bag, one I recognized from a charity auction last year. A bag that sold for more than the average person's annual salary.

Rough, indeed.

"A hundred thousand dollars, Damian," I