The Perfect Wife’s Affair

~SERENA’S POV~

There had to be some unwritten rule about paying an escort.

A pamphlet? A price list? Did overtime cost extra? Was I supposed to tip him, or would that make it weird?

'God, I should have Googled this.'

Who hires an escort without researching escort etiquette? Normal, confident women probably knew how these things worked.

Me?

This morning, I had been comparing prices on vanilla extract at the grocery store. Tonight, I was trying to figure out how much it cost to burn my marriage to the ground.

I couldn't even order a caramel macchiato without rehearsing my order three times in my head. Now I was sitting in a VIP booth at a nightclub that smelled like spilled gin and cheap judgment, trying to buy a man.

And the man in question looked far too expensive to come with instructions.

His name was Raul...or at least, that was the name on the website I had frantically browsed in a gas station bathroom an hour ago.

He was tall, effortlessly handsome, with dark eyes and hair that probably cost more to maintain than my entire yearly wardrobe budget.

Raul tilted a shot glass of something amber toward my lips. His fingers lightly brushed my chin as I swallowed, the alcohol burning hot down my throat.

But the liquor didn't burn nearly as much as the humiliation burning through my gut.

His eyes swept down my body, staying on the trashy red dress I had bought from a late-night shop...a dress that barely covered my hips and required me to leave my bra in the car...before dropping down to my left hand.

'Oh, fuck.'

I flinched, clumsily trying to twist my hand under the table, but it was too late. He had already seen it.

The band of diamonds catching the blue neon light.

I saw the flicker of surprise in his eyes when he noticed the wedding ring, his gaze stayed there for a second too long.

Whatever he was thinking, he buried it behind another polite, professional smile.

Heat crawled up my neck anyway.

He didn't have to say a word. I had already imagined every horrible thing he could be thinking about me.

He didn't know that two hours ago, I had been standing in a bedroom full of unlit candles and rose petals, wearing a lace nightgown I had spent my entire week's grocery budget on, waiting for a husband who was currently inside another woman.

He didn't know about the voice echoing inside my head....my husband's voice, laughing as he called me a dead fish to a woman who wasn't his wife.

He didn't know that the loyal, quiet, obedient Serena died on the bedroom floor tonight.

I pressed my back against the leather seat, my pulse racing.

I didn't care what Raul thought. I was paying him to help me erase five years of being a dutiful ghost; I wasn't paying him to evaluate my life choices.

Nobody got to judge me anymore.

Not my family, not my husband's pretentious friends, and especially not the lying, cheating bastard who had left me to rot for two years.

"So," Raul murmured, leaning in closer, his thumb stroking the side of my knee. His touch was warm, rehearsed, and entirely empty of real warmth.

"Do we have a deal, beautiful? My rate is five hundred for the hour. Rooms upstairs are extra."

Five hundred.

The number stayed in the air. Panic, cold and sharp, suddenly cut through my anger.

My heart beat against my chest like a trapped bird.

Cold sweat broke out across my collarbone. The electronic bass vibrating through the floor felt deafening, and the smell of the club made me sick.

What the hell was I doing? I was twenty-nine years old. I lived in pastels and baked bread on Sundays. I couldn't handle this.

What if he was dangerous?

What if I got caught? What if I threw up on his expensive shoes?

I opened my mouth, ready to blurt out an apology, throw a hundred-dollar bill on the table for his wasted time, and run as fast as my heels could carry me.

"Cancel him."

The voice didn't belong to Raul.

It was deep, smooth, and laced with a deadly, familiar edge that made every hair on the back of my neck stand up.

I froze.

The soft noise of the nightclub seemed to mute instantly.

Slowly, I turned my head toward the entrance of the booth.

A tall figure took over in the velvet-draped entryway. Broad shoulders, an expensive vintage shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and eyes that held the exact kind of intentional meanness I had spent years trying to avoid at family dinners.

Cassian Ashford.

My husband's adopted brother. The family black sheep. The notorious playboy who looked at my husband's golden-boy status with a silent, boiling hatred.

Cassian barely acknowledged Raul's existence.

His pitch-black eyes were locked entirely on me, sweeping over the tiny red dress, taking in my flushed cheeks, my wildly unstable breathing, and the hand I was still trying to hide under the table.

"He's leaving," Cassian said flatly.

He didn't look down as he tossed a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills onto the table.

It slid past my drink, stopping right in front of the escort. "Get out."

Raul looked at the money, then at Cassian's dark, unblinking expression. He didn't ask questions. He grabbed the cash, slid out of the booth, and vanished into the pulsing crowd of the dance floor.

I was trapped.

A fresh, terrifying wave of panic mixed in my chest. If Cassian told my husband about this, everything was over. The divorce, the asset division, the quiet escape I needed to plan...he would use this to label me unhinged, turn the family against me, and leave me with nothing.

"Cassian," I whispered, my voice breaking as I tried to summon the gentle, unassuming persona I had worn around his family for years.

"Please. It's not what it looks like."

Cassian stepped into the private booth, taking the seat opposite me.

He didn't look like a savior. He looked like a predator who had just stumbled upon a cage with the door left wide open.

He leaned across the small table, bringing his face inches from mine.

The dark scent of expensive amber cologne and high-end bourbon washed over my senses.

"I know exactly what it looks like," he murmured, a slow, dangerous smile touching his lips. "You're trying to ruin him. But you're going about it all wrong."

I swallowed hard, pressing my back flat against the leather. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't play dumb with me, sister-in-law. It doesn't suit you." Cassian's eyes narrowed, something dark flashed behind his eyes whenever he looked at my husband.

"You want to hurt him? A stranger in a hotel room won't do it. He'll just laugh and call you hysterical."

He reached out, his fingers lightly catching my chin, forcing my gaze back to his.

"Use me instead."

I forgot how to breathe.

"You're his brother."

"Exactly." His smile barely moved. "A stranger won't keep Ryker awake at night." He leaned closer, close enough that I caught the rich scent of bourbon and cedar on his skin.

"His brother will."

My pulse pounded in my ears.

His gaze never left mine.

"And unlike the man you hired..." He glanced toward the stack of cash still sitting on the table before looking back at me.

"I'll do it for free."