Chapter 2

Over the years, whenever I was bored, I leaked plenty of tips about Carter’s dirty laundry to the press. A few times, I even personally led reporters to ambushes on his dates.

The most explosive stunt happened three years ago, right on our wedding day.

It was supposed to be the moment we took the stage together, exchanging vows and sweet nothings under the adoring eyes of our guests. Instead, Carter vanished without a word, leaving me standing alone on the altar, staring blankly at the ring bearer.

Bathed in the heavy, suffocating pity of the crowd, I ripped off my veil.

I marched right up to the press photographers frantically snapping shots, and calmly said:

"There's a much hotter story waiting. Who wants it?"

I led a swarm of reporters straight to a luxury downtown hotel, knocking on the suite door disguised as room service.

The door opened, revealing the newly famous starlet, Alyssa Young.

Known for her sultry bombshell persona on the big screen, she was wearing a simple, pure-white sundress. Her heavy eye makeup was gone, her long lashes naturally lifting, making her look strikingly innocent.

Staring down the barrels of the cameras suddenly aimed right at her, she seemed completely stunned. Her fingers froze on the handle, her lashes fluttering helplessly.

It wasn't until Carter stepped out of the bathroom with only a towel wrapped around his waist that the cameras went crazy, capturing the two of them in undeniable intimacy. Only then did Alyssa let out a terrified gasp, frantically trying to slam the door shut.

After watching her little performance, I shoved the door open, ignoring Carter’s thunderous glare.

Amid the non-stop clicking of shutters, I grabbed Alyssa by the collar.

"Miss Young," I announced clearly, "Carter Vance is my legally wedded husband. Sneaking around behind closed doors with him is called having an affair."

The cameras immediately swiveled to focus on Alyssa and me.

Staring into those gaping black lenses, I felt like a host on a primetime legal special.

Just as I was debating whether to throw in a catchy anti-cheating slogan, Carter roughly shoved my hand away from Alyssa.

He hit me with so much force that I stumbled backward.

When I looked up, Alyssa was already tucked safely behind his back.

"Chloe, what the hell is wrong with you?"

My brand-new husband had ditched our wedding to hook up with a mistress in a hotel, and he had the nerve to ask what was wrong with me.

Hilarious.

I actually let out a dry, startled laugh.

Watching his impatience curdle into pure irritation, I adjusted my footing, wound back my arm, and slapped him across the face.

A sharp, deafening crack echoed down the hallway.

The entire corridor instantly went dead silent.

Carter’s head snapped to the side, his dark eyes wide with total disbelief.

His face turned completely white. As he reached up to wipe a smear of blood from the corner of his split lip, I spun on my heel and bolted down the hall before he could rip me apart.

By that evening, the media was saturated with stories about the rising movie star acting as a home-wrecker.

Headlines like [Vance-Scott Union Crumbles: Starlet Poised to Take the Ring] blew up on every platform, trending relentlessly on Ins and Twitter.

My phone rang off the hook until the battery nearly fried.

Sitting curled up on my sofa through the relentless buzzing, I watched the evening news, bursting into giggles at the sight of Carter’s swollen cheek.

Thanks to his pale complexion, that red handprint stood out beautifully.

It was probably one of the few truly humiliating moments of his pampered life.

Caught red-handed cheating in a hotel room, and immortalized on live TV getting slapped silly by his bride...

He’d probably need to book a therapist tomorrow just to salvage his bruised ego.

Not my problem, though.

I rested my chin on my hands, grinning from ear to ear.

The more miserable Carter was, the happier I felt.