The Justification of Betrayal [POV: Vincent]
Abigail’s bed rest changed things.
I knew pregnancy made women more emotional, more paranoid even, but I wasn’t prepared for how much it would affect her. It started with small things—little glances at my phone when she thought I wasn’t looking, the subtle shifts in her tone when she asked about my late nights. But soon, those small things turned into interrogations, into accusationswrapped in concern.
I gave her updates. Sent her pictures. Let her know exactly where I was.
It wasn’t enough.
It didn’t matter that I was exactly where I said I’d be—a late client meeting, a strategy session, a deposition running over schedule. She still questioned me. Still looked at me with that hesitation, that flicker of doubt in her eyes.
And after a while, I started wondering: If I was going to be treated like a cheater… why not just be one?
I told myself it was just a night—a release. A necessary indulgence for a man who had been put on pause. Abigail was pregnant, hormonal, exhausted. I was patient at first, understanding even, but I was still a man with needs. And a marriage, no matter how strong, didn’t erase those needs.
I had been careful. My secretary had been convenient—available, willing, no strings. But then she started getting ideas, asking questions about Abigail, hinting at something more. That was a problem.
So I fired her. Clean break. No loose ends.
But tonight, I needed something different. Something that came with no expectations at all.
The club where I had my bachelor party was still open, still thriving with women who understood the rules of the game. I didn’t expect to see anyone familiar. It was just a flicker at first—something at the edge of my vision—but when I turned, I stopped breathing.
Hannah.
She wasn’t on stage. She wasn’t dancing. She wasn’t sprawled across some drunk asshole’s lap.
She was standing near the backstage entrance, her phone in her hand, like she had just ended a call.
And she looked different.
Not desperate. Not broken. Not the woman I left in that house, clutching divorce papers and looking at me like I had destroyed her.
She looked… confident. Put together. Like she had moved on.
The gold satin dress she wore hugged every curve, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders, her lips painted a shade darker than I remembered.
She was beautiful. I had always known that.
But I had been too busy hating her to really see it.
And that realization hit me like a punch to the gut.
The girl on my lap shifted, whispering something in my ear, but I wasn’t listening anymore.
I pulled a hundred-dollar bill from my wallet, tucking it into the neckline of her dress before pushing her away.
“Not tonight,” I muttered.
She pouted but took the money without complaint, moving on to the next willing target.
I stood, adjusting my jacket, and walked toward Hannah before I even made the conscious decision to.
What the hell was I doing?
I didn’t know.
I just knew I wasn’t leaving this club without talking to her.
