My Husband's Mistress Sent Me a Bedroom Selfie. By Morning, I Had Foreclosed on Both Their Careers.

I sat at a corner table in Balthazar, sipping a mimosa and eating a perfectly flaky croissant.

At exactly 9:14 a.m., my phone began to ring.

It was Alexander.

I let it go to voicemail.

It rang again. And again. And again. By the fourth call, the name on the screen switched from my husband to Arthur Vance, the Chairman of the Pierce Enterprises Board. I answered that one.

"Victoria," Arthur's gravelly voice barked through the speaker. "Tell me this email is a goddamn joke."

"Good morning, Arthur. I assure you, my nightgown is not a joke."

"Alexander's office is a warzone," Arthur hissed, though I could hear the panicked shuffling of papers in the background. "Vanguard just pulled out of the deal. They fired the Montgomery girl twenty minutes ago and threatened to sue us for predatory executive behavior. The legal department is losing their minds. Alexander is screaming at his secretary to find you."

"Let him scream," I said calmly, breaking off a piece of my croissant. "The merger is dead, Arthur. Alexander's indiscretion just cost the shareholders thirty million dollars in projected PR stabilization. You know the bylaws regarding executive misconduct as well as I do."

There was a heavy, loaded silence on the line. Arthur was a ruthless businessman. He didn't care about my broken heart; he cared about the bottom line. And I had just proven that Alexander was a liability.

"The emergency board meeting is in an hour," Arthur said finally, his tone shifting from panic to cold calculation. "Are you coming?"

"No," I replied. "I'm having breakfast. But I expect you to have his resignation drafted by the time I finish my coffee."

I hung up.

Five minutes later, Isabella Montgomery sent me a text message from a number I didn't recognize.