No Heir For The Cheating Billionaire

The revolving glass door pushed against Hadley's shoulder, heavy and slow, as if trying to resist the storm she was bringing inside. Rain slicked the marble floors of the Tribeca lobby, and she shrugged the dripping trench coat from her shoulders, the expensive wool suddenly feeling like a lead weight on her arm.

She kept her head down, avoiding the polite, questioning gaze of the concierge. His job was to know every face, and hers was not one he would recognize from the building's roster of residents.

The VIP elevator bank was tucked away in a discreet alcove. She walked toward it, her heels making no sound on the thick Persian rug. Her fingers, cold and numb, dug into the depths of her Hermès bag until they closed around the cool, sharp edges of a black key card. A spare. Copied months ago from the one Cleveland kept in the glove compartment of his car, for a day she hoped would never come.

She held her breath as she pressed the card against the sensor. An agonizing second passed. Then, a small green light blinked, and the brushed steel doors slid open with a soft, expensive sigh.

Inside, she pressed the button for the penthouse. 42.

The elevator shot upward. Her stomach lurched, a sickening knot of dread tightening in her gut. The feeling was so intense it was almost physical, a cold fist clenching around her organs.

Ding.

The doors opened onto a dimly lit hallway. The air was thick and warm, and the silence was absolute. Her footsteps were swallowed by the plush carpet as she walked toward the double mahogany doors at the end of the hall.

And then she smelled it.

Chanel No. 5.

It wasn't her scent. It was cloying, aggressive, and it hung in the air like a declaration. Her fingers, reaching for the keypad, froze mid-air. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, trapped bird.

She took a shaky breath and typed in Cleveland's birthday. 0-8-1-2.

A red light flashed. Access Denied.

She bit down on her lower lip, the metallic taste of blood a sharp sting on her tongue. Of course. He wouldn't be that careless. Or maybe he would.

Her fingers trembled as she typed in a new set of numbers. A birthday she'd seen splashed across the gossip pages a dozen times. The birthday of the actress Seraphina. 1-1-0-5.

Click.

The lock disengaged. The light turned green.

The door was open.

She pushed it just enough to create a crack, a sliver of an opening into her husband's other life. Across the living room, the floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the glittering skyline of Manhattan, the Empire State Building a distant, indifferent jewel.

Her eyes dropped to the floor of the entryway.

A pair of Christian Louboutin heels, studded with crystals, were kicked carelessly to the side. Red soles up.

She stepped over them, her body moving on autopilot. A man's custom suit jacket was tossed over the arm of the