My Wife Cheated With Her Billionaire Boss So I Teamed Up With His Wife To Ruin Them
Part 1
The restaurant she chose was one of those places where the lighting costs more than the food.
Soft amber glows, white tablecloths, and glass hurricanes.
Megan always picked places like this when she had something important to say.
Usually something she knew I wouldn’t like.
She dragged her finger around the rim of her wine glass without lifting it.
Her gaze remained fixed on the table.
I cut into my steak, watching the nervous flutter of her eyelashes.
Long day, I muttered.
We need to talk, Dan.
There it was.
The sentence that fractures a life in two.
I set down my fork and looked across the table at the woman I had married seventeen years ago.
Megan possessed that effortless allure that made strangers turn their heads.
But tonight, her usual confidence was replaced by a heavy, suffocating guilt.
I leaned back against the leather booth.
I am listening.
She took a sharp breath.
I have been seeing someone from work.
It is Craig Peterson.
The name hung in the air between us.
Craig Peterson, the billionaire publisher of the literary empire where Megan worked as a senior editor.
He was forty-seven, married to a former museum curator, and wore his success like a weapon.
I should have felt that hot rush of adrenaline and blind rage.
Instead, a cold calmness settled over my chest.
I already knew.
I had known for three long weeks.
Ever since I found her laptop open on the kitchen counter, glowing with messages from a contact named C.
How long, I asked, keeping my voice perfectly level.
She flinched, shrinking back into her seat.
Six months.
Six months of kissing me goodbye while she fantasized about another man’s bed.
Six months of our children having dinner with a mother who lived a double life.
Are you in love with him, I asked.
Her face twisted into something complicated and ugly.
When I am with him, I feel alive.
With you, I just feel like the person who pays the bills while you chase your writing dreams.
She finally met my eyes.
I want a divorce, Dan.
She dropped the nuclear option right between the entree and dessert.
Okay.
Her eyes widened, clearly stunned by my lack of resistance.
What do you want me to do, Megan.
Beg you to stay.
I signaled the waiter for the check.
We drove back to the house in total silence.
When I pulled into the driveway, she kept her hand on the door handle.
I will stay at my sister’s tonight.
Probably for the best, I replied.
After she went inside to pack a bag, I walked into my study and locked the door.
I pulled out my phone and opened the hidden folder I had been maintaining for the past three weeks.
Screenshots of messages.
Credit card statements showing mysterious hotel charges.
I had been preparing for a war.
I just had not known exactly what kind of war it would be.
The next morning, I sat in the downtown Manhattan office of Brian Davies, my attorney.
Brian slid a thick manila folder across his polished mahogany desk.
Given that this is an equitable distribution state and you have no prenup, this could get very messy, Dan.
I opened the folder, watching seventeen years of shared history reduced to spreadsheets and account balances.
Our house in Westchester.
My royalties from three published novels.
Megan’s stock options from the publishing house.
How vindictive do you want to be, Brian asked.
I want what is fair, I replied.
But I also want to understand the man who decided to take my wife.
What do you know about Craig Peterson.
Brian tapped his keyboard, bringing up a profile on his monitor.
Billionaire publisher, married to Heather Peterson for twenty-one years.
She is a former chief curator at the Museum of Modern Art who gave up her entire career when his company went public.
Word around the industry is that Craig has a long history of affairs.
Does his wife know.
Hard to say.
She maintains an incredibly controlled public image.
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees.
What if I told you I wanted to meet her.
Brian raised an eyebrow.
Dan, that is playing with fire.
Maybe, I said, standing up to leave.
Or maybe it is exactly how you level the playing field.
That night, my fifteen-year-old son Tyler walked into the kitchen with his laptop.
He sat down at the island, his expression guarded.
Mom called, he muttered.
She wants to have dinner with us this weekend to talk about the transition.
I poured a cup of coffee.
What did you tell her.
That I would think about it.
He paused, the silence stretching uncomfortably long.
Dad, I know exactly what is going on.
I turned around and leaned against the counter.
How much do you know.
I see the way she panics when her phone rings.
Yesterday, I found something on her iPad.
He spun the laptop around so I could see the screen.
She forgot to log out of a secure messaging app.
I saw the messages between her and someone named C.
They were not exactly discussing book edits.
My chest tightened, a wave of profound sadness washing over me.
Tyler, I am so sorry you had to see that.
Are you guys getting divorced.
Yes.
He nodded slowly, his jaw clenching hard.
Good.
She does not deserve you.
Or us.
I hugged my son, realizing that our family was completely shattered.
That night, staring at the ceiling in the dark, I pulled out my phone and searched for Heather Peterson, ready to strike my first match.
