"You're back early."
The voice came from the center of the room, flat and entirely devoid of guilt.
I stood frozen in the doorway of our Los Angeles master bedroom. My fingers still gripped the cold brass of the doorknob. I had just cut my European business trip short by three days, rushing back across the Atlantic to surprise my husband.
Instead, the surprise was mine.
Logan Brooks, the reigning world champion race car driver, sat propped up against the velvet headboard of our bed. Beside him lay Sabrina Monroe. She was currently Hollywood's most talked-about actress, and right now, she was tangled up in my custom white sheets.
Neither of them scrambled to cover up. No one screamed. No one jumped out of bed in a panic.
"I asked if you were back early," Logan repeated. He didn't even sit up. He just stared at me as if I were a hotel maid interrupting his afternoon nap.
A bizarre, broken laugh clawed its way out of my throat. "So, I should have come back later? Just to make sure I gave you two enough time to finish?"
Sabrina shifted, dragging the duvet up to her collarbone. She didn't look embarrassed. She looked bored.
"Claire, don't misunderstand," Sabrina said, her tone lazy.
"Misunderstand?" I stepped fully into the room, letting the heavy oak door swing shut behind me. "I'm looking at my husband in bed with another woman. What exactly is there to misunderstand?"
"It's PR," Sabrina drawled. She reached over, tracing a manicured fingernail along Logan's jawline. "We're just coordinating for my new movie release and his upcoming racing season."
"Coordinating," I repeated. "Naked."
"The fans want us together," Sabrina continued. "The studio thinks it builds
