He gripped the edge of the desk because the floor felt like it was moving.
Vespera Ashborn was a criminal.
The bruises on Natasha's arm were fabricated. The surveillance cameras in that apartment had been planted without consent or warrant. Those were crimes. Actual crimes, prosecutable offenses that would end careers and destroy reputations if anyone could prove who was behind them.
She'd decided that destroying him was worth it. Worth the fabrication, the conspiracy, the risk. And she'd made that decision years ago, because the cameras hadn't been installed last week. The footage showed multiple nights, different angles, timestamps spanning months. She'd been building a case since before the affair began, sitting on it, adding to the pile.
The contract amendments went back four years. The surveillance at least three. She had been hollowing out his empire while attending charity galas beside him, reviewing quarterly earnings across from him, sleeping down the hall from him.
