Elena POV:
The Uber glided to a halt in front of the Hotel Sorrento.
A bellboy in a crisp uniform immediately rushed forward, holding a massive black umbrella over my head as he opened the car door. I stepped out, the wet pavement reflecting the warm, vintage lights of the hotel exterior.
I had booked this exact hotel five years ago to celebrate my first massive Wall Street bonus. It was a symbol of my independence, the place where I realized I didn't need anyone to survive. Tonight, I needed that reminder.
I walked straight to the front desk. My posture was rigid.
"The highest-tier executive suite you have available," I said. My voice was completely flat, devoid of any inflection.
As the receptionist typed into her computer, my phone screen lit up on the black marble counter. It was Nathan. Again. It was the fifteenth call in the last twenty minutes.
I picked up the phone, flipped it over, and placed it face down on the cold marble.
The receptionist handed me a gold keycard. I took it, gripped the handle of my suitcase, and walked to the elevators alone.
When the metal doors slid shut, I looked at my reflection in the mirrored walls. My red lipstick was still perfectly applied. My hair was sleek. But my eyes looked hollow, haunted by a bone-deep exhaustion.
I swiped the keycard and pushed open the heavy wooden door to the suite.
I didn't turn on the overhead lights. I just clicked on a single, dim floor lamp in the corner of the living room. The room was cast in heavy shadows.
I walked over to the massive floor-to-ceiling window. Outside, the Seattle rain was washing over the glittering city skyline in relentless sheets.
The silence of the room pressed against my ears. The adrenaline that had carried me out of the villa finally evaporated.
My knees gave out.
I slid down the cold glass of the window until I hit the carpet. I pulled my knees to my chest, buried my face in my hands, and let out a choked, ugly sob. My chest heaved violently. The pain of the betrayal tore through my ribs, sharp and suffocating.
I sat there in the dark, crying until my throat was raw.
But I only allowed myself ten minutes. Not a second more.
I forced my hands flat against the carpet and pushed myself up. My legs shook, but I stood straight.
I walked into the marble bathroom and turned the faucet to freezing cold. I cupped the icy water and splashed it over my face, washing away the tears and the ruined makeup. When I looked up into the mirror, the vulnerability was gone. My eyes were sharp, lethal, and focused.
I walked back into the living room, opened my suitcase, and pulled out my laptop. I set it on the mahogany desk and flipped it open.
I picked up my phone. I went into the settings and silenced Nathan's number. I didn't block him. Blocking him meant losing a paper trail of his harassment, and I needed every piece of evidence I could gather.
I opened the web browser and typed in Instagram. I searched for the name *Misty*.
It took me less than two minutes to find her. Her account was completely public. It was a digital shrine to vanity, filled with endless photos of designer bags, luxury hotel rooms, and expensive dinners.
I started scrolling down. I dragged the timeline back a year and a half. Back to the exact time I was drowning in the paperwork for a massive pharmaceutical merger.
I clicked on a photo of a candlelit dinner at a Michelin-starred restaurant.
I zoomed in on the bottom right corner of the image. Resting on the white tablecloth, holding a wine glass, was a man’s hand.
Wrapped around his wrist was a limited-edition Patek Philippe watch.
My chest went cold. I had bought that exact watch for Nathan for our fifth wedding anniversary.
I hit the screenshot shortcut. I saved the file and coldly renamed it *Evidence 1*.
I kept scrolling. Six months further back. A photo of Misty in a tiny pink bikini, standing on a pristine beach in Hawaii.
The caption read: *Thanks to my Mr. M for taking me to see the ocean. Best week ever!*
I stared at the background of the photo. Leaning against a palm tree, right behind her, was a custom-painted blue and silver surfboard. Nathan’s surfboard.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. During that exact week, Nathan had told me he was attending a closed-door, intensive startup bootcamp in Silicon Valley with no cell reception.
My heart went completely numb. I wasn't angry anymore. I was a machine. I mechanically screenshotted the image, categorized it, and dropped it into a folder.
I scrolled up to a post from three months ago. It was a mirror selfie.
Misty was wearing a silk robe, posing with duck lips. But the background wasn't a hotel. It was my master bathroom.
Lined up perfectly on the marble counter behind her, deliberately placed in the frame, was my entire collection of La Mer skincare.
She had been standing in my bathroom, using my things, mocking me in plain sight while I was working myself to the bone across the world.
I slammed the laptop shut. A violent cramp seized my stomach, twisting my insides into a knot.
I took a deep, shuddering breath. I picked up my phone. I needed to see the core of the rot. I needed to see the money.
I stared at the bank icon on my phone screen and mutters to myself, "Let me see just how many people you've been feeding with my money."
