Chapter <b>1 </b>


    <b>Chapter </b><b>1 </b>


    “Mrs. <b>Harper</b>, Mr. Harper and I–there’s really nothing between us. You have to believe me!”


    My husband’s new obsession knelt at our mansion door, looking pitiful. And there he stood, with a tenderness I’d never seen before.


    All of Manhattan knew Luke was a total yer and I was the long–suffering wife who always looked the other way. So everyone expected me to swallow my pride and pretend nothing happened like before.


    But this time? I was done.


    I walked straight past her, got in my car, and drove to the family estate. Without hesitation, I pushed open Grandpa’s study door.


    “Grandpa, this arrangement we made–it’s over.”


    “Set me free.”


    After all, EIGHT BILLION DOLLARS inpensation VS. ying a stupid housewife to a cheating bastard, even idiots know better, right?


    Every tabloid hack in Manhattan knows the deal-


    When any entertainment reporter’s numbers are falling short for the month, they camp outside Harper Industries and wait for Luke


    Harper.


    He switches girlfriends every month like clockwork, and he’s not exactly subtle about it. Easy money shots.


    Men, right? A little scandales with the territory.


    But his wife? She needs to keep up appearances. Maintain her reputation.


    You snap her husband’stest fling, name your price, and she’ll pay without blinking.


    But old habits die hard, and situations keep evolving.


    When the rookie paparazzi from New York Daily took his video to Luke Harper first and got sent straight back to me, I’d just gotten


    home from the office.


    Our penthouse sits high above Central Park, with the entire Manhattan skyline stretching out below.


    The voice on my phone kept rambling, amateur but cocky, shooting for the moon.


    “Mrs. Harper, it’s only two hundred grand. That’s like one handbag for you, right? Just two hundred K and your husband’s mess disappears. Total bargain.”


    “If you’re interested, just call this number…”


    This paparazzi wasn’t too bright. First time tailing, second time boldly knocking on Luke Harper’s car window.


    Luke’s cars are actually hard to recognize since he switches them constantly. Hundreds of cars in his garage, but that week he kept driving the same one.


    <b>13.20 </b>


    Hell Yosh Forget the <b>Other </b>Woman My <b>Smart </b>House Was Cheating On Mel


    <b>14.1</b><b>% </b>


    In the video the paparazzi sent me, Luke rolled down his window. Some hot blonde sat in the passenger seat.


    Last month when <b>I </b>got those photos, that same seat held a rising starlet from LA.


    Luke pulled off his sunsses, revealing that annoyingly perfect face to the camera, then crooked his finger at the lens.


    When the guy got closer, Luke’s voice was smooth as silk.


    “First time, huh? Here’s how it works, rookie. You get your shots, you take them to my wife. Try hitting me up and you’ll get nothing.”


    “Need my wife’s number?<b>” </b>


    He grabbed a piece of paper, scribbled down some numbers, then tossed it into the paparazzi’s chest.


    Then he nced at the woman beside him and clicked his tongue.


    “Get out.”


    The woman leaned closer, whining.


    “Luke, you said three days. It’s only been a few hours…”


    Luke threw a credit card at her and hit the unlock button.


    “Few hours and you already got us busted? Get out before I throw you out myself.”