In this thrillingly twisty tale of seduction, betrayal, and obsession, a scorned wife isn’t the only one looking for answers—at any price … Adira Smith-Cortez knows how to turn around a troubled past. Now she’s a selfmade multi-millionaire who takes exquisite care of herself and her only true love: her husband, Gabriel. Adira has it all—except the answer to one tormenting question: why is attentive, affectionate Gabriel cheating on her—with not just one, but two women. There’s sexy Jocelyn, a club owner. And then there’s Julianna, a celebrity makeup artist he’s even crazier about. In a tricky twist, vengeful Jocelyn offers Adira the perfect plan to get her straying spouse back … It sounds simple: Adira will befriend Julianna through a fake identity, play on her and Gabriel’s vulnerabilities and cause them to split up permanently. Determined to reclaim her happiness, Adira won’t—can’t—stop to think what could possibly go wrong … Until too many of Gabriel’s lies start adding up to a disquieting truth. Until Julianna discovers who Adira really is—and Jocelyn pushes Adira to ever-moreunthinkable extremes. With her world collapsing and shattering memories tearing her apart, how far will Adira’s obsession take her—and how much of herself is she willing to lose in the process …
Release date:
June 27, 2023
Publisher:
Kensington Books
Print pages:
320
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
No one truly knows their partner, do they? I mean really, really know them, down to the mysterious depths of their souls and the hardness of their core. You can spend years with the same person, creating memories, growing together, blossoming into one . . . but you’ll never truly know what’s going on inside their heads.
You’ll never have access to that dark, dark corner—the space in the mind where every human keeps their wildest fantasies, their most wicked, primal thoughts, and pitch-black secrets. We all have these corners—every single one of us, even the sweetest, most kindhearted people have a sliver of darkness lurking in the crevices of their brains.
These are the things I think about when I look at my husband. He sits across from me in our kitchen, sipping his coffee as he focuses on the screen of his phone. What is he reading? An email? A text?
He presses his pink lips after each sip from the mug that has the words Rugby Is Life in a fat, bold font. It was a gift from one of the other coaches on his team.
I absorb everything about my husband, as if I’m looking at him for the first time again. There’s that familiar arch of his nose, the sharp angle of his jaw. His skin appears smooth, like brown velvet, his cheekbones shaped in a godlike manner. His goatee has been trimmed neatly, courtesy of his barber, Kenneth.
The silver hair near his temples shimmers from the sunlight streaming through the arched casement windows next to us and I can’t believe there was a time when I loved the gray hair on him. The maturity of it once made me feel womanly and vulnerable to him and seeing as he was five years older than I was, well, his age had always been a delicious factor. Now, I feel my belly churning at the sight of it.
Gabriel sighs and scrolls through his phone some more, his gold wedding band sparkling in the light. I study the ring and can’t help but allow my mind to revert to our wedding day.
A Hawaiian breeze and a tulle ivory dress. Laughter, cheers, and applause. Twinkling fairy lights and newlywed kisses beneath milky-white moonlight. Champagne and toasts and red velvet cake with buttercream cheesecake frosting.
A sigh escapes me. What a dream that was.
“What’s the matter?” Gabriel’s voice fills the kitchen, a deep timbre that’d once had the power to soothe me. His voice can’t be mistaken for anyone else’s. I’d know his voice from across a busy room or in the thick of a crowded amusement park if he shouted my name.
“Nothing’s the matter.” I sip my coffee and look into his brown eyes.
“You’ve been quiet.”
I shrug. “Just thinking.”
“About what?”
“Work stuff.”
He lets out a gut-deep sigh and sits against his chair, forgetting about his phone for a moment and bringing the rim of the mug up to his lips to sip. “Work stuff,” he repeats after the sip.
“I’m meeting an important investor today.” I flip my wrist, as if suddenly pressed for time. “I should get going. Alaina is supposed to be giving me a refresher before the pitch.”
“Are we still on for dinner tonight?”
I push from the table and pick up my coffee mug and plate of half-eaten scrambled eggs and toast that he’d prepared for us. He cooks for me every now and then. He’ll turn on some old-school R&B and sing while cooking what he knows how to cook, which isn’t much really and is just the basics. Scrambled eggs, toast, bacon. He isn’t a professional cook by any means, but it was the effort that counted. It used to mean a lot to me, having him make me breakfast. It was something special and sacred between us, but I can’t shake the feeling that it’s changing. A lot of things have changed between us lately.
“Of course. Tonight,” I confirm.
I dump the remainder of my coffee down the drain of the farmhouse sink, scrape off the remainder of food on my plate in the trash bin, and walk around the table for my bag on the counter.
The legs of his chair scrape the floor, and I feel the heat of his body against my back.
“Try not to stand me up tonight, will you?” he murmurs in my hair. “I know you’re a busy woman, but I miss spending my nights with you.”
“I won’t,” I say without turning in his arms. I pick up my bag and move sideways. Finally facing him, I press a kiss to his cheek and murmur, “See you at dinner.”
My marriage has been on shaky ground lately, and I get the sense that my husband hasn’t been telling me the whole truth about what he does with his time when he’s not at home.
Of course, it’s not healthy to spy on your spouse—I know that—and in most cases, you’re bound to find out something you don’t want to know . . . but how can I not? He’s been coming home later, texting more often, and going out of town more too. Things are changing, and there’s a deep feeling in my gut that burns and sizzles and yearns for answers, so instead of driving straight to work, I drive down the block and park.
I wait exactly fifteen minutes before spotting my husband’s Range Rover pass by. Putting my car in Drive, I follow him, making sure to stay a car apart so he won’t recognize my Audi. The stadium for rugby is only thirty minutes away from our mansion in Noir Hills, and he has to take Interstate 275 to get there. So why isn’t he taking the interstate?
He makes a right turn to drive through the city. I don’t feel good about it at all, but I tell myself perhaps he’s going for a coffee or needs to make a stop for gas. But we pass by his favorite coffee shop, and there are many gas stations he could’ve stopped at by now. He continues driving until he’s turning his signal on to make a left into the parking lot of the mall.
I follow him into the lot before the light can change signals, but instead of continuing after him as he finds a parking spot, I keep driving. I keep a careful eye on his car, the clean silver gleaming beneath the Florida sun, and watch until he parks. When he does, I find a place to park where I can see him but where he won’t see me, and that’s when I watch him climb out of the car and walk toward one of the mall entrances with his phone pressed to his ear.
He stops and stands next to the entrance, lowers the phone, and then raises his chin. His eyes are pointed in my direction, and I lower into the leather seat, hoping he can’t see me. His eyes light up with recognition, a smile sweeps across his lips, and I begin to panic, thinking he’s caught me. He’s onto me and now he’ll know I don’t trust him.
But then I realize that he’s not looking at me at all, but at a woman who is rushing toward him. She meets up with him, dressed in a pink floral dress and wedged brown heels, and as soon as she does, he opens his arms and hugs her. This isn’t a friendly hug, or the kind of hug you’d give to someone for a meeting or for business. This is a familiar hug—one he’s given me time and time again.
And if I think that was all, I’m sadly mistaken because right there—right in front of the mall, with many bystanders and even myself to witness it—my husband kisses another woman.
If there’s one thing I know, it’s that life is what you make it. In life, I’ve learned that I have to roll with the punches, stick the landings, and if the lemons are rotten, grow my own damn lemons with the seeds and try again later to make some damn lemonade.
Failure is not an option for me and, yes, I can be headstrong and rebellious, but if I weren’t, who would I be? Where would I be?
Another issue I have is constantly proving I’m a woman of value. However, a real woman wouldn’t be doing what I’m doing. She wouldn’t be shopping for lingerie, then going to get her hair done, all to rush to a snazzy hotel for a man. And yet here I am, plucking out a black lingerie set from the rack. The push-up bra will do nicely.
I take it to check out and lay it on the counter, where the cashier smiles at me. “Would you like to apply for our store credit card and save ten percent today?” she asks, continuing a bright smile.
I think about it. I have a feeling I’ll need lingerie much more often now, and it’s not like I can’t afford to have another credit card. “You know what?” I say, smiling. “Why don’t I make both of our days? Sign me up.”
After I do, I collect my bag and my papers for the new credit card I’ve applied for and leave the store with a smile bigger than the cashier’s. After my hair appointment and a quick pedicure, I’m on my way to the Ritz-Carlton downtown, Musiq Soulchild pouring from the speakers, getting my mind prepared for the night.
Pulling up to the valet, I hand them my keys, trot into the lobby of the hotel to check in, and stroll to my room on floor fourteen. I shower, freshen up, then order a light meal and a bottle of wine, which arrives just in time for me to eat before he arrives.
A spritz of Love by Kilian on the wrists and neck, a light brush of my teeth, and I’m ready. I sit on the bench at the bottom of the bed with a glass of wine, and it only takes two minutes for the hotel door to click and for Gabriel to walk into the room.
He smiles wide at me, and I giggle and place my wineglass down as he rapidly strips out of his clothes and kicks off his shoes. Rushing toward me, he scoops me up in his arms and I cross my legs around his waist, kissing him hard, deep, fiercely.
“I’ve been looking forward to this all day,” he rasps on my lips, laying me on the bed. “I love meeting you here. Being with you. Seeing you like this.”
I smile as he kisses my neck, savoring his kisses, his love.
“You really missed me that much?” I sigh.
“Trust me,” he says, sitting up between my legs to unbuckle his belt. “I most definitely did.”
Then he’s on top of me again, easing me out of the new lingerie and making me his. It’s awful, really, because he’s married, and I’m sure it would kill his wife to know he’s sneaking to hotels with another woman and having his way with her. After all, if it were me, I’d be devastated. But there’s also something empowering about doing this—knowing that he’s running to me, and only me, when he could literally have anyone else in this world. It makes me feel desired and sexy, like a goddess. I feel on top of the world, and there’s a spring in my step and a flare in my confidence that hadn’t thrived before.
Would I want it to happen to me? Hell no, and it never will because I don’t plan on tying myself down and getting married. Plus, what Gabriel and I are doing won’t last forever. One day he’ll get bored, things will become stale, and we’ll go back to what we were before, colleagues, friends. For all I know, his wife will never find out.
So yes, I’ll take this. I’ll take it all if it means I get to feel something for once in my life.
When my eyes flutter open, I taste blood. I sit up, wiping the corner of my mouth, only to notice a streak of red on the back of my hand. My tongue stings a familiar sting and I sigh. Of course, I bit my tongue while asleep.
“Damn nightmare,” I grumble, turning over in the king-size bed. My eyes wander to the window, at the sheer beige curtains hanging from golden rods. This morning is darker than the previous morning. Through the slit of the curtains, I spot gray skies and thick clouds that are ready to create a downpour. Tampa weather is always a hit or miss.
I stretch my arms. Sigh again. Then I prepare myself mentally when I turn my head and find that my husband isn’t in bed with me. It’s been three weeks of this—of him not showing up at night. Most times he’s traveling for work. But during the other times? Oh, those other times make me sick to my fucking stomach.
Still, I climb out of bed and follow my daily routine. After all, I have to get to work. I’m the one who keeps the roof over our heads and pays the bills. I’m the one who put the down payment on our house and provided him his own entertainment space, where he can drink his beer, scratch his balls, and watch all the televised sporting events he wants to.
You’d think he’d show his appreciation by showing up—be a little more grateful. I scoff at the idea as I start my morning skin-care routine. I apply the cleanser, toner, serum, rub in some SPF, and then saunter to the walk-in closet built for three, taking down the outfit I planned out last night—a black pantsuit with a silky, silver blouse.
After taking the bonnet off my hair to unleash my twist out, giving my curls a refresher with water and my favorite hair cream, I top the morning off with final touches of makeup, perfume, and silver jewelry in front of my vanity.
I hear my phone vibrate aggressively on my nightstand as I check my appearance in the mirror. Everything is in place. My clothes are crisp and ironed, my hair is as neat as I can make it, but with rain on the way, I can’t count myself lucky enough for a full-length good hair day. The humidity is often brutal.
Blowing a breath, I leave the bathroom and grab my phone—and what do you know? A text message has arrived from my loving husband, Gabriel.
G: Good morning, babe. So sorry I couldn’t make it home last night. Got caught up with Tray at the bar and you know how he gets when he’s had one too many. Crashed at his place to make sure he was good but I’ll see you soon!
Home. Such an ironic word for him to call it. Certainly, he can’t consider this his home. A home is where one feels safe and comfortable. Home is where you build trust with your loved ones, not stab them in the back repeatedly.
My jaw ticks. The urge to call and shout my head off at him is strong, but I resist and instead send a quick message back. Don’t worry about it. Hope Tray is ok!
Then I leave our bedroom and head to the kitchen to take my medication. After gulping the pills down, I grab my purse, work folders, keys, and leave the house, giving the door a slam behind me.
I park my car in the parking lot of Velvet’s Café and kill the engine. Sitting for a moment, I realize that I’ve been coming here much too often. Soon, the employees will recognize me as a regular, and that’s the last thing I need because if they notice, so will others. However, this is important, and I must admit I’m a little addicted to the habit I’ve created now.
Picking up my Saint Laurent bag from the passenger seat and climbing out of my car, I lock it behind me and walk toward the café in nude Louboutins.
I’m swallowed whole by the scent of brewed coffee beans and freshly baked pastries. Silver globes with gold lights hang from the ceiling, attached to thick black wires. The floor is black and white, reminding me of a vintage kitchen, as well as the wooden antique furniture.
At the counter, I order my usual iced caramel coffee with an extra shot of espresso. I thank the barista when she hands me my drink and then make my way outside, taking up one of the two-top tables beneath the black awning that faces the street. Placing my coffee down on the square wooden table, I flip my wrist to check my watch for the time. Only a few more minutes to go.
As I wait, I sip my drink and scroll through my phone, acting casual, but nothing about what I’m doing is casual. If the people around me knew what I was doing, they’d consider me unhinged. Frankly, I don’t care. No one at Velvet’s knows who I am—at least not that I’m aware of. And it isn’t like I stay for very long. Other than my usual coffee, I only come here for one thing—well, one person, rather.
I hear a car door slam shut and swing my gaze up to the ridiculous bubblegum-pink Mercedes-Benz parked at the curb. A young Latina woman walks away from it, dressed in pink sneakers, high-waisted pink leggings, and a gray tank top. Her hair is in a messy topknot, a few loose strands hanging around her heart-shaped face, which is clear of makeup, minus her glossed lips.
She smiles as a man holds the door open for her. I clutch my coffee cup, feeling the heat of the liquid seeping through the sleeve. I bet men hold doors open for her all the time.
When she’s inside, I watch through the window while she orders what I’m positive is her go-to now: an avocado, banana, and mango smoothie with vegan protein powder—I’ve overheard her order this several times—and after she pays, she waits for it at the counter.
I sip my coffee casually, phone still in hand, but I’m unable to pull my eyes away from her. She’s fit and her physique could make a mediocre woman jealous, but not me. I’m not mediocre and I’m also very fit.
I go to the gym three days a week, I take part in a dance class, and on weekends I perform Ashtanga yoga in my home studio. Meditation is essential to me, but I haven’t been able to meditate in weeks. My mind has been so crowded and busy lately—too occupied with betrayals for it to dwell in silence.
This woman has a little more curve to her hips than I do, but my breasts are bigger. She also has back dimples, which I don’t have, but other than that, she doesn’t have much else I don’t.
When her order is ready, she takes it with a smile and a wave, then saunters out of the café to get back to her obnoxious car.
I’ve watched her come to this café and leave it for the past three weeks, and when she leaves, I’m always tempted to follow her, just to see what else she does with her time.
I know exactly who she is . . . and I hate her. I hate her with every fiber of my being. Her name is Julianna Garcia. She’s a makeup artist well known by influencers in Tampa, and especially Miami. She owns a water-view apartment and visits Velvet Café for her vegan smoothies every Tuesday morning after her barre class, which is only two blocks away from here. On Thursdays, she goes swimming at a private golf club with her best friend, Victoria.
She has a golden Labrador retriever named Goldie, which I find beyond cliché, and her favorite color is rose gold. All of this I know after scouring her social media. She’s the most basic human being I have ever come across . . . and she’. . .
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...