Livestreaming My Cheating Billionaire Husband

Jasmine

The background jazz music was soothing as it wafted through the large dining hall. I found myself humming along until…

“Another glass of the Dom Pérignon, Madame Sterling?” the waiter asked in a thick French accent, tilting the bottle. “Mr. Sterling is delayed, but there is no reason the night cannot begin.”

I looked at the empty chair across from me. Jason was forty minutes late. It wasn’t the first time, but tonight was very special to us. I really wanted to believe tonight would be different.

“Yes, please,” I said, forcing a polite smile.

I took a sip, the cold champagne bubbling against my throat. It tasted expensive, the kind of vintage my father used to stock by the crates in our winter estate. But I had spent three years pretending to be amazed by Jason’s upper-middle-class lifestyle, letting him believe he was introducing me to a world I couldn’t otherwise afford. It turned sour the moment I looked around the room. In the corner booth, a young couple was holding hands over a candle, whispering and laughing. Near the door, a man walked in with his arm wrapped tightly around a lady’s waist, pulling her close.

My chest ached. Three years ago, Jason and I were just like them. Starry-eyed, holding hands, completely obsessed with each other. We married within six months. Today was supposed to be our third anniversary. We should have walked in here together, with his arm around my waist, just like the couple sitting in the corner.

My eyes wandered to them. They were leaning so close to each other that they were almost touching noses. I stared at them with dazed eyes, completely sucked in, until my phone beeped loudly.

I blinked, pulling myself back to reality. My heart did a quick, hopeful flutter as I grabbed my bag. I expected a text saying, ‘I’m downstairs,’ or ‘Stuck in traffic.’

It wasn’t from Jason. It was an unknown number.

Unknown: You look very fine tonight, Mrs. Sterling. It’s a shame Jason is balls deep in another woman right now. Sienna Suites, 104 West Lane. Penthouse B.

I froze.

Instantly, the warmth of the restaurant vanished, replaced by a wave of cold goosebumps that broke out across my arms. A violent spike of nausea hit me. My head spinning, I swept a panicked glance around the dining room, terrified that someone was watching me, laughing at me. But the waiters kept gliding past with silver trays, and the lovey-dovey couples remained locked in their perfect, smiling worlds.

My mind raced. I clutched my bag, my hands shaking so badly I could barely hold it. This can’t be real, I told myself. Jason is cold; he’s arrogant, but he would never do this. Can he?

I couldn’t sit there for another second. I stood up, abandoning the bubbling champagne, and rushed out into the humid night air.

The drive across the city was a blur. Neon lights smeared across the windshield as tears burned behind my eyes. My grip on the steering wheel was trembling, the tires screeching as the car veered recklessly over the lane lines. I gasped for air, but my chest felt locked behind iron bands.

I had given up everything for him. My family’s staggering wealth, my status, my inheritance—I had walked away from it all and accepted a vow of poverty to prove I loved a man who was currently throwing me away like trash. I had endured his mother’s snide remarks about my lack of a family pedigree. I had let his friends look down on me as a penniless nobody.

When I finally pulled up to the Sienna Suites, I felt completely hollow.

I entered the lobby, legs wobbling. I approached the reception desk and mumbled the words, half-expecting the lady to turn me away or call security.

“I’m here for… Penthouse B. Jason Sterling.”

Instead of looking confused or asking for identification, the receptionist smiled. It was a wide, brilliant, rehearsed smile that sent a shiver down my spine. It felt surreal, as though I had stepped into someone else’s nightmare. I actually pinched the flesh of my inner arm to force myself awake.

“Ah, yes, Mrs. Sterling,” she said cheerfully, sliding a sleek black card across the counter. “Our guest has been expecting you. Here is the master key card.”

Expecting me?

I didn’t breathe a reply. I snatched the plastic with a clammy hand and hurried toward the elevator. The ride up was dead silent, save for the thumping of my own pulse roaring in my ears.

Ding.

The doors slid open directly into the penthouse.

I didn’t even have to look. The noises hit me first. A low, breathless giggle, followed by a heavy, familiar groan. I knew that groan. I had heard it a thousand times in the dark of our own bedroom. It was him. But the high-pitched, desperate whimper that followed didn’t belong to me.

It belonged to Victoria—his stepsister.

The very woman I had spent months feeling insecure about. Every time I had brought her up, Jason had scoffed, calling me crazy, telling me it meant nothing.

My heart plummeted straight into my stomach. I took unsure steps forward, my heels making no sound against the soft, plush carpet. The double doors to the master bedroom were wide open.

They were right there on the bed.

Jason’s tailored suit jacket was discarded on the floor; his shirt was torn open, his pants pulled down around his thighs. They hadn’t even had the decency to fully undress. Victoria was straddling him, her silk dress bunched up around her waist.

I stood paralyzed in the shadows, watching her back arch, her fingers tangled in his dark hair as she rode him. The sickening wet sounds filled the room. I couldn’t see her face, but Jason’s face was framed perfectly by the headboard. His eyes were locked on her with a look I hadn’t seen directed at me in years.

The shock hit me like a physical fist to the gut. The suffocating mix of betrayal, rage, and grief tightened around my throat, choking out my air. I wanted to scream. I opened my mouth to tear the room apart.

But no sound came out.

And then, as the initial shock settled, I felt myself go very still. The violent shaking in my hands stopped entirely. The chaotic panic evaporated, replaced by a cold, razor-sharp clarity.

The three-year test was officially over.

And Jason Sterling had just failed it.

I stood perfectly straight, my shoulders dropping as my face smoothed into a flawless, emotionless mask. Slowly, calmly, I reached into my designer bag and pulled out my phone.

I opened the camera app, framed the sweating, writhing couple perfectly in the lens, and hit the button to unlock the live feed to my family’s network.