I stopped mid-step. Turned slowly. The smile on my face was razor-thin and aimed at myself.
"Damian. Doesn't it disgust you?"
He stared at my expression—the quiet, knowing look in my eyes—and something in him faltered. The fury on his face seized up. His gaze darted sideways, unable to hold mine.
"What are you talking about? We're husband and wife. There's nothing disgusting about that."
I slammed the door shut. I couldn't stand the sight of him for one more second.
The man I'd once admired—all that cool, aristocratic composure—was nothing but a mask over something vile and shameless.
The next morning, the moment he left for work, I called a private investigator.
When the PI laid the files and footage in front of me, my legs gave out. I sank into the chair, and for one blinding moment, all I wanted was a knife.
Damian Ashford. How could you do this to another human being? Aren't you afraid of burning in hell?
Fine. Every sin you've committed—I will repay double.
I shut myself inside the house for three days straight. I couldn't face those videos. I couldn't bear to imagine how many people had already seen them.