I pushed the heavy oak door to the master bedroom open. The hinges didn't make a sound.
My husband, Ryan Carter, lay in the center of our king-sized bed. Vanessa Hart, his latest leading lady, was straddling his hips.
Ryan didn't shove her off. He didn't scramble for the sheets or shout my name in a panic. He simply turned his head, locking eyes with me. His face remained perfectly calm, as if I had just walked in on him reading a script.
"You're home early," he said.
I stood in the doorway. My fingers tightened around the brass handle. "Clearly."
"You told me your meeting with the network executives would take all afternoon," he added, his voice completely devoid of guilt.
"They signed the contract early," I replied. "I came back to celebrate. But it looks like you started the party without me."
Vanessa didn't even bother to cover up. She glanced over her bare shoulder, a lazy smile spreading across her face.
"I thought you said she was at the agency all day," Vanessa murmured. She didn't move an inch away from him.
"She was supposed to be," Ryan replied, not breaking eye contact with me. "Don't overreact, Olivia. This isn't what it looks like."
"It looks like you're sleeping with your co-star in our bed," I said. "In the middle of the afternoon."
He sighed. He ran a hand through his messy blonde hair. "It's a business need. You know the numbers. The fans want to see us together."
"You're justifying cheating as a marketing strategy?" I asked, my voice dangerously even.
"I'm maintaining my relevance," he snapped. "The studio has been pushing this showmance for months. If I don't give the media something to work with, the ratings drop. We need the heat."
"So you brought her here. To our home. You couldn't rent a hotel room?"
"It's a controlled environment." Ryan leaned back against the tufted headboard. "Paparazzi are swarming the hotels downtown. If we get caught in public, it ruins the narrative the PR team is building. Doing it here makes sense."
"Makes sense?" I echoed. "You're having sex with another woman on the mattress I picked out. In the house I decorated."
"Don't use that tone with me," Ryan warned, his jaw flexing. "Besides, what does it matter? Nobody knows we're married. To the public, you're just my manager. You've always been just my manager."
The words hit me. I had spent the last five years building his career from the ground up. I hid our marriage to protect his heartthrob image. I took the backstage passes and stood in the shadows while other women walked the red carpet on his arm.
"I gave up my own life for your image," I said.
"And you got paid very well for it," Ryan shot back. "Don't act like you're some martyr. You enjoy the perks. You like the front-row seats at fashion week. You like the private jets."
Vanessa shifted her weight, leaning her chest against Ryan's arm. "He's right, you know."
I shifted my gaze to her. "Nobody asked you."
She let out a soft, mocking laugh. "Are you jealous, Olivia? Because it sounds like you're jealous."
"Jealous?" I repeated.
"It must be hard," Vanessa cooed. She rested her chin on Ryan's shoulder. "Watching him pretend to be single. Watching him kiss me on screen. And now, watching him want me in real life. You're just the hired help who schedules his flights."
"I'm his manager," I said, keeping my voice entirely flat. "I negotiate his contracts. I book his campaigns. I clean up his scandals. I don't need to sleep with him—or anyone else—to secure a business deal."
Vanessa's eyes narrowed. The playful demeanor vanished, replaced by a flash of genuine spite.
"Is that why he prefers me?" she asked. "Because you're too busy acting like his mother to act like a woman?"
She grabbed the edge of the silk duvet and kicked it away. She left herself completely exposed in the afternoon light.
"Well," Vanessa sneered, tilting her chin up. "If you aren't leaving, are you planning to join us? Because otherwise, you're just killing the mood."
I ignored her. I kept my focus locked on Ryan. "Get her out of my house."
"It's my house, Olivia," Ryan corrected.
"I'll call the press," I warned. "I'll send an email to every major outlet right now. Let's see how the fans react when they find out their favorite bachelor is legally bound to his manager, and he brings his co-stars home to cheat."
Ryan let out a dry, humorless chuckle. He reached over to the nightstand, picked up a glass of water, and took a slow sip.
"Go ahead," he said. He set the glass down. "Call them."
I stepped further into the room. "You think I won't?"
"I think you're smarter than that." He pointed a finger at me. "Did you forget the prenup you signed? The one you insisted on to prove you loved me for me?"
My jaw tightened.
"If you file for divorce, you get nothing," Ryan continued. His tone carried absolute certainty. "The house in Beverly Hills? It's in my name. The penthouse in New York? Mine. The cars, the investments, the bank accounts. All mine. You walk away with zero."
"I have my career," I shot back.
"Your career is me," he countered. "I am your only client. I funded your agency. If you blow up my reputation, you blow up your own business. You have nowhere to go, Olivia. You need me just as much as I need you."
"You think you own me."
"I think we have an arrangement that works," Ryan said. "You get the luxury lifestyle, the designer clothes, the VIP access. I get the freedom to do what I need to do to stay on top."
"By sleeping with a C-list actress?"
Vanessa gasped. She sat up straight. "C-list? I have two million followers!"
"Followers I bought for you," I told her. "Because your engagement was tanking before the studio paired you with my husband."
Ryan slammed a hand against the mattress. "Enough, Olivia."
He gestured toward the floor near the foot of the bed. Vanessa's lace underwear and his discarded jeans lay in a tangled heap on the rug. Empty champagne flutes sat on my vanity.
"Now," Ryan commanded. His voice dropped into a cold, authoritative register. "Be useful. Stay here and clean up this messy bedroom. Vanessa and I have an interview in two hours, and I need my suit pressed."
"You want me to clean up after your mistress?"
"I want my manager to do her job," he said. "Get the room sorted. Then call the driver."
Vanessa traced a finger down Ryan's chest. She threw a triumphant smirk in my direction. She leaned in and kissed his jaw.
"Don't take too long," Vanessa whispered loudly enough for me to hear. "The smell of bleach ruins my appetite."
I looked at the clothes on the floor. I looked at the empty glass on the nightstand. Finally, I looked at the man I had devoted my entire twenties to.
"Clean it yourself," I said.
I turned around and walked out of the bedroom. I didn't look back. It was time to show Ryan exactly what his manager was capable of.
