My flats slapped the hardwood floor of the foyer. The house was completely dark, save for a sliver of light spilling onto the second-floor landing.

I had just left Sarah and the girls at the downtown lounge. Tomorrow was game day, and I fully expected to find my husband asleep.

Instead, a loud, vulgar moan drifted down the staircase.

My stomach knotted. I gripped the banister and climbed the stairs, the sounds growing sharper with every step.

The master bedroom door hung wide open. I stopped in the doorway.

Anson, the star quarterback of the league, had his face buried in a woman's neck. Max. The pop singer whose face plastered every billboard in the city.

"Fuck, you feel good," Anson growled. He gripped Max’s ass, pulling her flush against his groin. He thrust deep into her pussy, the wet slapping sound echoing off the vaulted ceiling.

Max threw her head back. "Fuck me harder, Anson. Ram it in. Show me what that big cock can do."

He pulled almost all the way out, then slammed back in. "I’m going to wreck your fucking wet little cunt."

"Yes! Fuck yes!" Max screamed, her legs wrapping around his waist. "Fill my pussy! Give it to me!"

I watched my husband of five years fuck the biggest pop star in the country.

"If you're going to wreck her, do it on your side of the mattress," I said. "I just washed those sheets."

Anson stopped. He didn't scramble. He didn't shove Max off in a panic. He simply withdrew from her, his cock glistening under the bedside lamp, and reached for a pair of boxer briefs on the rug.

Max didn't even flinch. She sat up, her bare breasts fully exposed, and dragged a hand through her blonde hair.

"Barbara," Anson said, pulling the underwear up his thighs. "You're home early."

"Clearly," I replied. I crossed my arms, leaning against the doorframe. "Good thing I didn't stay out till two."

Anson grabbed a towel and wiped his chest. "It's not what you're thinking."

"I'm thinking my husband is fucking a pop singer in our bed. Did I misinterpret the visual?"

"Babs, listen to me," Anson said. He walked toward me, but I stepped back. "This is purely business."

I let out a flat, hollow laugh. "Business. You were balls-deep in her for business?"

"Yes!" He threw his hands up. "You manage the team. You see the numbers. My jersey sales tripled this month. Why? Because X and Instagram are obsessed with me and Max."

"So you have to fuck her?" I asked, my voice terrifyingly even.

Max stretched her legs out on my duvet. "You have to sell the fantasy, Barbara. The fans want us together. If we don't have real chemistry, the paparazzi catch on."

"Real chemistry," I repeated.

"Exactly," Anson said, seizing the excuse. "You know I love you. We've been married for five years. Who is the one I come home to? You."

"You're right," I said. "You come home to me, and bring her with you."

Anson sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Nobody knows we're married, Babs. That was the deal. We keep it a secret so my brand stays strong. You agreed to that."

"I agreed to keep my name out of the press," I shot back. "I didn't agree to you raw-dogging a singer in my house."

Max leaned against the headboard, completely unabashed. "Look, we're both adults here. Anson told me about your little arrangement."

I glared at her. "He told you?"

"Of course he did," she said, tracing a finger over her collarbone. "I needed to know there wouldn't be any messy legal drama if someone caught us. Sister, you're so generous, you won't mind, right? It's just sex. You get the ring, I get the headlines."

My jaw clamped shut. I looked at Anson. He stood there, nodding along with her insane logic. Five years of hiding in the shadows. Five years of managing his schedules, fixing his PR messes, building him from a rookie into a superstar.

"You agree with her," I stated.

"She has a point," Anson said, stepping closer. "This is a partnership, Barbara. You and me. This thing with Max? It's a campaign. It ends when the tour ends."

"A campaign."

"Yes. Come on, baby. Don't be unreasonable."

I walked over to the dresser. I picked up Anson's heavy gold watch from the glass tray.

"Unreasonable," I murmured, turning the metal over in my palm. "I'm your manager, Anson. I built your image. I know how PR works. This isn't PR. This is you wanting to fuck someone else and finding a convenient excuse."

"That's bullshit," he snapped. His voice dropped, losing the placating tone. "I'm the franchise quarterback. I carry the team. I carry you. If I say it's PR, it's PR."

Max rolled off the bed. She walked naked across the rug and picked up her lace panties. "He's under a lot of pressure, Barbara. You should be supporting him. Not nagging him."

I dropped the watch back onto the tray. The clatter rang sharp in the room.

"Put your clothes on, Max," I commanded.

She smirked. "Or what?"

"Or I call TMZ right now and tell them the golden couple is a fraud, and Anson Miller is legally bound to his plain, boring manager."

Anson lunged forward, grabbing my wrist. "Don't you dare."

I stared down at his fingers wrapped around my arm. I didn't pull away. I simply looked back up into his eyes.

"Take your hand off me."

Anson's grip tightened for a second before he dropped his hand.

"You wouldn't ruin everything we built," he said.

"I wouldn't," I agreed. "But I'm done buying your lies."

"Babs, look. I'm sorry you had to see it. I should have taken her to a hotel."

"You're missing the point."

"Then explain it to me! Because from where I'm standing, I'm securing our financial future. Do you know how much the endorsement deals pay when Max and I post a photo together?"

"Two million per post," Max chimed in.

"I know exactly how much they pay, Anson," I said. "I negotiated the contracts."

"Then why are you acting like this?"

Max walked up behind Anson. She wrapped her arms around his bare waist, pressing her naked breasts against his back. She reached down, her hand slipping inside his boxer briefs.

"He needs a release," Max whispered, stroking him. "You don't give him what he needs, sister. He told me you barely fuck him anymore."

Anson closed his eyes, his hips tilting back slightly into her touch. "Max, stop. Not right now."

"Why not?" Max asked, her fingers moving rhythmically. "She's watching. Maybe she wants to join. Do you want to watch me suck your husband's cock, Barbara?"

"Max," Anson warned, though he didn't push her hands away. He looked at me, a challenge in his gaze. "She's just playing, Babs."

I watched him get hard under the fabric of his underwear. I felt nothing. No rage. No tears. Just a cold, hollow emptiness.

"You're pathetic," I said.

"Excuse me?" Anson's eyes snapped open.

"Both of you," I said, stepping toward the hall. "You think you're untouchable because of some likes on Instagram."

"We are untouchable," Max bragged. She pulled her hand out of his boxers and licked her fingers. "The whole world wants us to get married."

"Then you can have him," I said.

Anson scoffed. "You're not leaving, Barbara. You have nowhere to go. Everything is in my name."

"The house is in your name," I corrected. "The management company is in mine."

His jaw tightened. "You're my wife."

"A secret wife," I reminded him. "A secret wife who just walked in on a porn shoot."

"I told you, it's PR!" he shouted, finally losing his temper. "Why won't you just accept that?"

"Because PR doesn't leave semen on my sheets," I shot back.

I turned my back to them.

"Clean up," I ordered. "I'm sleeping in the guest room."

"Barbara, wait," Anson called out, taking a step forward.

I didn't turn around. I walked down the hall, the sound of my flats slapping the wood echoing in the silence.

I entered the guest room and locked the door behind me.

My flats padded against the thin carpet of the private terminal. I bypassed the VIP lounge and took a seat near the boarding gate. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the team’s chartered jet idled on the tarmac.

Usually, I would be in the passenger seat of Anson’s SUV right now. I would be handing him his protein shake, reviewing the opposing team’s defensive stats, and managing his social media updates.

Today, I left his bags by the front door and called my own cab.

My phone vibrated in my palm. The screen flashed Anson’s name. It was his twelfth call in half an hour.

I swiped the green icon and brought the speaker to my ear.

"Where the hell are you?" Anson barked.

"Gate four," I said, my voice flat. "Boarding starts in twenty minutes."

"Gate four? You’re at the airport?"

"That is generally where boarding gates are located."

"Don't play smart with me, Barbara. We ride to the hangar together. Every single game day for five years, we ride together. I’ve been pacing the kitchen waiting for you to come downstairs."

"I had advance work to do," I said. "I needed to get to the terminal early."

"You don’t do advance work on game day. You’re my manager. You travel with the talent."

"The talent has a GPS on his phone. You can find the airport."

A heavy sigh crackled through the speaker. "You’re punishing me."

"I’m doing my job."

"You’re being petty," Anson snapped. "I explained last night. The PR campaign requires sacrifices. You storming out of the house and abandoning my pre-game routine is unprofessional."

"Unprofessional," I echoed. My grip tightened on the plastic armrest of my chair. "You think my scheduling is the problem here?"

"I need you in the car, Babs. I need to go over the press talking points."

"Talking point one: throw the ball. Talking point two: score points. You’ll be fine."

"Stop it. Just wait there. I’m getting in the car now. We can still walk onto the tarmac together. The cameras always catch us boarding."

"They catch you boarding," I corrected. "They catch me carrying your duffel bags three steps behind you."

"Barbara—"

"Who are you talking to, baby?"

The voice was muffled, but the bright, nasal tone cut straight through the line.

I stopped breathing for a second. My jaw locked.

A bitter laugh scraped the back of my throat. I stared out the window at the gray morning sky.

"Is she there?" I asked.

"Babs, wait, listen," Anson stammered. The aggressive edge in his voice vanished, replaced by a frantic scramble. "It's not what it sounds like."

"You used that exact phrase last night. Get some new material."

"She just showed up," he insisted. "I didn't invite her over."

"Right. She picked the lock."

"I’m serious! I walked into the kitchen and she was just standing there."

Rustling noises echoed through the receiver. Someone grabbed the phone.

"Barbara? Hi!" Max chirped.

I squeezed my eyes shut. "Put my husband back on the phone, Max."

"Oh, don't be like that," she said, speaking with exaggerated sweetness. "I actually came over to the house to apologize."

"To apologize."

"Yes! Face to face. Woman to woman. But you were already gone."

"At seven in the morning," I said.

"Well, I know you management types like to get a head start. I wanted to catch you before you left. I feel just terrible about last night. We really need to clear the air."

I opened my eyes. The terminal around me felt perfectly still.

"Are you apologizing from my side of the bed, or his?" I asked.

Max let out a high, ringing giggle. "You're so tense, sister. We aren't even upstairs. We're in the kitchen."

"Fascinating."

"I brought coffee and pastries," Max continued. "I thought we could all sit down and talk about the media strategy for today's game. Since you abandoned him."

"I didn't abandon him. I relocated."

"Same thing. He was so stressed out when he couldn't find you. Poor guy was pacing holes in the rug."

I heard a faint, wet smacking sound through the receiver. Anson groaned softly in the background.

My stomach twisted into a hard knot.

"Looks like you found a way to relieve his stress," I said.

"I always do," Max purred. "A good pop star knows how to support her quarterback. I had to calm his nerves before the big game. You know how much pressure he's under."

"Make sure he stays hydrated."

"Oh, I'll take great care of him. You just focus on your little clipboards and spreadsheets."

"Give the phone back to Anson," I demanded.

"He's a little tied up right now," Max said. Her voice dropped an octave, turning husky. "Literally."

"Max, stop," Anson muttered in the background. His voice sounded strained. "Give it back."

"Hold on, baby," Max told him. She spoke directly into the receiver again. "See you in the owner's box, Barbara. Try to wear something nice. The cameras will be everywhere."

I pulled the phone away from my ear and pressed the red button.

The line went dead.

I dropped the phone into my lap. My hands shook slightly. I pressed my palms flat against my thighs to steady them.

They were in my kitchen. Less than twelve hours after I caught them in my bed, she was back in my house.

A gate agent in a crisp navy suit walked up to the podium. She picked up the microphone.

"We are now boarding all passengers for the charter flight to Miami."

I stood up. I grabbed my carry-on bag, the wheels rolling smoothly over the carpet.

"Sign the clearance forms by noon," I told the assistant coach, handing over the tablet.

"Got it, Barbara," he said, rushing off toward the locker rooms.

The stadium corridor smelled of fresh paint and floor wax. I pulled a pen from my pocket and checked off the final box on the pre-game itinerary.

Anson walked down the tunnel. Max hung off his arm, wearing a custom jersey with his number plastered across her chest.

"He doesn't have time for a press gaggle at twelve-thirty," Max announced, stepping directly in front of my path.

I kept my eyes on my clipboard. "The network requires a ten-minute interview. It's in his contract."

"I don't care," Max said. She snatched the clipboard out of my hands. "I scheduled a joint Instagram Live for twelve-thirty. My fans are waiting."

"Give that back," I demanded.

Max tossed the clipboard onto a nearby equipment trunk. The metal clip snapped loudly. "You are completely out of touch. Nobody watches network pre-games anymore. It's all about social reach."

"He is a football player," I said, my voice hardening. "He needs to focus on the playbook, not a ring light."

Anson adjusted his shoulder pads. "Babs, the live stream will pull three million viewers. Just move the network interview."

"I can't move the network," I replied. "They own the broadcasting rights."

"Then cancel it," a new voice interrupted.

Julian Croft walked out of the VIP suite. He owned the title sponsor brand paying Anson eight figures a year.

"Julian," I said, squaring my shoulders. "You know the broadcast penalties."

"I'll pay the fines," Julian waved a hand dismissively. He stopped next to Max, giving her an approving nod. "Max is right. Your scheduling is archaic, Barbara. You're stifling his brand."

"I'm keeping him disciplined," I countered. "If he loses focus, he loses the game."

Max laughed, a sharp, grating sound. "He's a natural talent. He doesn't need you micromanaging his every step."

Julian checked his gold watch. "Actually, Barbara, Max and I had a long conversation this morning. We reviewed the engagement analytics."

"Without me?" I asked, looking at Anson.

Anson refused to meet my gaze. He stared at his cleats.

"We don't need you for this conversation," Julian said. "Effective immediately, Croft Athletics is pulling our endorsement if you remain his manager."

The corridor grew incredibly quiet.

"You're firing me," I stated.

"We are upgrading," Max corrected, a smug smile stretching across her face. "My agency is taking over Anson's portfolio. We know how to handle real stars."

"You handle pop tours," I told her. "You know nothing about sports management."

"I know how to keep him happy," Max purred, trailing a manicured fingernail down Anson's chest plate. "Which is more than you ever did."

I turned my attention to my husband. "Are you agreeing to this? Five years of building your career, and you're handing it over to a singer you met three months ago?"

"It's business, Babs," Anson muttered. "Julian wants the change. I have to keep the sponsors happy."

"You're a coward," I said.

"Watch your tone," Julian warned. "You're lucky we aren't suing you for breach of contract based on your poor performance this quarter."

Max stepped closer to me. "Face it, Barbara. You're obsolete. You have no connections, no power, and no talent. You're just a plain, boring woman holding him back."

She picked up my clipboard from the trunk and shoved it against my chest.

"Pack up your cheap suits and go back to whatever pathetic desk you came from," Max sneered. "And on your way out, tell the locker room attendant to bring us some sparkling water."

I gripped the edges of the clipboard. The plastic dug into my palms. I didn't yell. I didn't cry.

"You will regret this," I said, my voice dead calm.

Julian scoffed. "Is that a threat?"

"It is a fact," I replied. "You just handed a multi-million-dollar athletic franchise to a woman who thinks a blitz is a type of cocktail."

"Get out," Anson snapped, finally looking up. "Just leave, Barbara. You're making a scene."

I stared at him for one long second. Then, I turned around and walked away.

My shoes hit the concrete floor in a steady rhythm. I didn't look back. I navigated through the labyrinth of stadium tunnels until I reached the quiet VIP exit.

My phone vibrated in my pocket.

I assumed it was the blackmailer again. I pulled the device out, ready to confront whoever was threatening me.

The caller ID didn't show an unknown number.

It displayed a single name: *William*.

My thumb hovered over the screen. I hadn't spoken to my brother in five years. Not since I walked away from the family empire to marry a rookie quarterback.

I swiped to answer and pressed the phone to my ear.