The billionaire's scorned wife: the cold revenge

On our fifth wedding anniversary, I walked in with a positive pregnancy test and a heart full of hope. I walked out with my world in ashes.

The rain was beginning to lash against the windows of our luxury penthouse, a rhythmic drumming that usually calmed me. Today, it sounded like applause. I felt like the luckiest woman in the world. In my designer handbag, tucked safely in a side pocket, was the small plastic stick that changed everything. Two pink lines. A miracle I had waited five years for.

"Mark is going to be so happy," I whispered to the empty foyer.

I had spent the afternoon at the doctor, then stopped by the jewelry store to pick up a custom-made Patek Philippe watch. I had spent my entire personal savings on it, engraving the back with: To Mark, My Forever. We had come so far from the days when we shared a single bowl of ramen in a cramped studio apartment. Now, Mark was the CEO of Thorne-Vance Tech, and I was the "Queen" of his empire.

Or so I thought.

The house was oddly quiet, but the scent of expensive, musky perfume something floral and cloying hung in the air. It wasn't mine. I preferred sandalwood.

I noticed a pair of red stilettos tossed carelessly near the marble stairs. My heart skipped a beat. Those were Sarah's. My best friend. My "sister." I smiled to myself, thinking she must be here helping Mark set up a surprise party. She knew how much this anniversary meant to me.

I crept up the stairs, wanting to surprise them. I wanted to burst in, show Mark the test, and watch his cold, business-like exterior melt into joy.

But as I reached the master suite, the door was slightly ajar. A low, sultry giggle drifted through the crack.

"Oh, Mark... stop it. What if your 'dear' Aria comes home early? She's supposed to be finishing the merger presentation."

My blood turned to ice. That was Sarah.

I stood paralyzed, my hand hovering over the door handle. My brain tried to make excuses. Maybe they're joking. Maybe I'm dreaming. But then I heard my husband's voice the voice that had whispered "I love you" every morning for five years.

"Aria?" Mark's voice was full of a mockery I had never heard before. "She's at the office, slave-driving over the code. She lives for that company. She's too boring to ever suspect a thing. Honestly, Sarah, I don't know how I endured five years of her 'plain Jane' routine."

I pushed the door just an inch wider.

The sight shattered me. My husband, the man I had worked three jobs to put through business school, was tangled in the sheets with the woman who had been my bridesmaid. Sarah was wearing my favorite silk robe-the one Mark had bought me for our first anniversary.

"You're so cruel," Sarah cooed, tracing a finger down his chest. "She thinks I'm her best friend. She even