Ninety-nine times.
I had swallowed my pride. I had smiled at galas while she clung to his arm. I had cooked dinners that went cold while he was "working late" at the office with her. I had convinced myself that it was just friendship, that I was being paranoid, that he loved me.
But lying here, with the ghost of his lips on mine, the fog cleared.
He never loved me. He loved the convenience of me. He loved the inheritance I secured. He loved that I kept his grandfather happy while he played house with the woman he really wanted.
I looked past Nathan’s shoulder. Danica was watching us. Her eyes were narrowed, calculating. She wasn’t looking at Nathan; she was looking at me, trying to gauge if I was still a threat.
If I pushed for a divorce now, while I was bedridden and weak, they would destroy me. Nathan would manipulate the narrative. He would paint me as the unstable, grieving wife. He would use his grandfather’s influence to block me.
I needed to be smart. I needed to be like the old Karylle—pliable, sweet, and stupid.
I needed to make them think they had won, so they wouldn’t see the knife coming until I buried it in their backs.
I let out a long, shaky breath and lowered my eyes.