It isn’t my fault.

My husband didn’t cheat because I gained an extra forty pounds, greeted him wearing stained sweatpants every day when he came home from work, and hadn’t given him a blow job in ten years.

He cheated because he’s an asshole with a character flaw.

The thing is…most of the wives probably did let themselves go a little—got comfortable, stopped spending time on themselves because they were taking care of others. But none of that should matter. These women didn’t need to prove anything. Just being here, I already knew it didn’t matter if they met their man at the door decked out in a lacy negligee and dropped to their knees. Because it wasn’t the faithful partner’s fault. No matter what. It was the cheater’s.

I should fucking know.

Caroline Brady was petite. Dressed in a conservative pantsuit that covered most of her thin frame, she looked more like a banker than a scorned woman. Her mousy brown hair was thick and straight, cut in a blunt bob with heavy bangs. Oversized dark sunglasses covered half her face. She looked like she was trying to hide eyes that were more than likely swollen from countless hours of crying over her piece-of-shit husband.

Soren stood and introduced himself, then looked to me.

I softened my normally bitchy attitude and extended my hand. “I’m Elodie. It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Brady.”

After she shook my hand, she stared down her nose at me for a solid thirty seconds. I stood my ground and stared right back. I could see her judging me, even hidden behind her glasses.

Soren finally intervened in our stare off. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

With her eyes shielded, she continued to gape at me for a few heartbeats, and then finally sat.

“What brings you here today, Ms. Brady?”

Her voice was cold. “I want her to sleep with my asshole husband.”

Soren held up his hands. “Whoa. Hang on a minute. That’s not what we do here. I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed.”

I glared at her. “I’m not a whore.”

She pursed her lips, but she didn’t have to say a word. Her face said it all.

I stood. “You know what, Soren? I’m actually not going to be able to do Ms. Brady’s job anyway.”

The one thing I knew about Soren was that he cared about me more than any retainer.

He nodded. “No problem, babe. Why don’t you head out, and we’ll talk tomorrow. Got plenty of other work for you to do.”

“Thanks.” I smiled and didn’t give Caroline Brady the satisfaction of a last glance on my way out.

I was deep in thought as I drove toward the Whitestone Bridge. There was a time when I’d actually gotten off on the work I did for Soren. My own messed-up relationship had taken such a toll on me that I needed a few years of screwing asshole men over. Every time Leo snapped the camera, I envisioned it was me getting the proof and screwing over my ex, Tobias. Oddly, setting up cheaters for their wives was cathartic for me—and a hell of a lot cheaper than a therapist.

At the last second, right before turning onto the bridge to go home, I made a rash decision. The horns blaring as I cut across two lanes of traffic to evade the entrance ramp showed just how last minute my decision had been.

I was done working for Soren, at least in the capacity that I was currently employed. When I’d first started working for him, he had wanted me to do computer work, anyway. I was certain there were enough other things that needed to be done to keep me busy. But before I took that path, before I sat down and talked to Soren, I needed to give what I really wanted one last try.

Pulling an illegal U-turn, I headed back uptown—back toward Hollis LaCroix’s office. It was late; he might not be there anymore. But I also had a picture of his driver’s license in my cell phone, and I wasn’t above using it.Chapter 6* * *ElodieGroveling wasn’t my thing.

But groveling to a good-looking guy like Hollis really made me uncomfortable.

Though I wanted the damn job.

I really wanted the job. Especially after I’d met Hailey and realized we could actually relate to each other. So if crawling with my tail between my legs was what it took, then today I’d be a mouse instead of the cat.

Standing in front of the penthouse at the address I’d gotten from his license, I lifted my hand to knock, then lowered it.

God, why does he have to be so damn good looking? Tall, confident, bone structure that would make a sculptor weep—he reminded me of all the men I loved to hate. I didn’t want to find him attractive.

I stood tall and gave the door a good, firm knock. From the outside, I looked like the picture of confidence, but inside I squirmed and hoped he wasn’t home.