Chapter 2

At the end of a winding mountain road sat a luxury private hot spring resort, wrapped in drifting mist.

The night was ink-black. Cold rain tapped steadily against the floor-to-ceiling windows. I stood in a hidden corridor outside the presidential suite, gripping a small recording camera in my hand. On my wrist, tucked deliberately beneath the cuff of a cheap jacket, a Patek Philippe watch ticked its second hand toward midnight without a care in the world.

Today was the third anniversary of my marriage to Serena.

It was also the beginning of a countdown I'd been planning for five years — the fall of the Sinclair family.

On the other side of the door, the open-air hot spring pool rippled and steamed. Through the translucent curtain, two tangled bodies moved in and out of shadow, the sounds of splashing water and heavy breathing crashing against the quiet of the night without a shred of restraint.

"Slower… Noah, you're hurting me…" Serena's voice seeped through the gap in the door, honeyed and trembling, laced with that practiced mix of resistance and invitation.

"Hurting you? Looks to me like you're loving every second." Noah laughed — low and shameless — his hands moving freely beneath the water. He grabbed her by her slender waist and shoved her hard against the smooth stone wall of the pool.

Water flew. Serena threw her head back, the long curve of her neck tracing a tempting arc in the dim light. Her eyes were glazed, her lips parted, as Noah's mouth dragged across her collarbone and chest, leaving a trail of red marks behind. The hands that once wore the wedding ring I'd chosen for her were now digging into Noah's broad shoulders, her nails sinking deep into his skin.

"You think if Dominic Harrington — that pathetic excuse for a husband — walked in right now and saw his precious wife like this, he'd piss himself?" Noah breathed the words into Serena's ear, his voice dripping with cruelty.

Serena let out a short, contemptuous laugh. "Why even bring up that useless man? You're killing the mood. He's probably home right now making me that stupid oatmeal he always cooks. That spineless pushover — even if he walked in and saw everything, he'd just drop to his knees and beg me not to leave him."

"You actually know how to treat a woman, Noah. Dominic's like a dead fish in bed. He makes my skin crawl just touching me…" Serena's moans grew louder as she gave herself over completely to the moment.

I stood in the cold wind. Rain soaked my hair and ran down my face.

Any other man — hearing his wife say those things while tangled up with someone else — would have lost his mind. Would have kicked that door open and torn them both apart.

But I didn't.

I just stood there, adjusting the camera's focus, capturing every detail of what they were doing, every filthy word they said, in perfect clarity.

My hands were steady. Not even a tremor.

My nails were digging into my palms hard enough to draw blood — but not from jealousy. It was hatred. A deep, bone-carved hatred, boiling through my veins.

The truth was, I'd known about them for a long time. In fact, I'd be more accurate to say I'd arranged the whole thing.

Noah — the man currently making himself at home in that hot spring pool — was someone I had personally placed at Serena's side.

Five years ago, I found Noah half-dead beside a drainage ditch behind an underground casino. He owed a loan shark operation a million dollars and was about to have both hands chopped off on a table.

I walked over and looked at him the way you'd look at a stray dog. Then I dropped a bank card with two million dollars on it in front of him.

"Do something for me. Get close to Serena Sinclair — she's the heiress of Sinclair Group. Seduce her. The fewer limits, the better. Get her into bed if you can. Once it's done, I'll give you ten million more and set you up somewhere overseas."

Back then, Noah's eyes blazed with the raw, hungry gleam of a wild animal. He dropped to his knees and slammed his forehead against the floor, over and over: "Boss, you're my savior! Don't worry — I know exactly how to handle women. I'll take care of everything, clean and neat!"

And he did.

Watching Serena's face through the lens — twisted with lust — I felt something deep inside my chest get carved out and replaced with ice-cold poison.

I captured the clearest, most damning footage possible.

This video was going to Richard Sinclair.

The chairman of Sinclair Group — the man who, five years ago, drove drunk and killed my mother, then paid someone to take the fall while he walked free.