I never told my husband’s mistress that I owned the resort where she tried to humiliate me. My husband brought her to “our” anniversary dinner, claiming she was a client. She spilled red wine on my dress on purpose. “Oops, maybe the maids have a spare uniform for you,” she laughed. I snapped my fingers. The General Manager appeared instantly with two security guards. “Madam?” he asked me. “This guest is damaging the property,” I said, pointing at her. “Blacklist her from every hotel we own worldwide. Now.”

“Oops, maybe the maids have a spare uniform for you,” she laughed, unaware that the only thing getting cleaned out tonight was her access to my world.

The Azure Resort was a palace carved from coral and gold, perched on the edge of the Pacific like a jewel someone had forgotten to insure. The air smelled of jasmine and money. Crystal chandeliers cascaded from the vaulted ceilings, scattering light that danced on the rim of every Baccarat glass in the room.

I walked in, my steps muffled by the plush carpet. I wore a navy sheath dress, conservative and elegant, the kind of outfit that whispers wealth rather than screams it. Beside me, my husband, Mark, was sweating through his Italian silk suit. He kept checking his reflection in the glass doors, adjusting his tie, a man perpetually auditioning for a role he wasn’t qualified to play.

“Try to smile, Eleanor,” Mark hissed under his breath. “This dinner is crucial. Jessica is a potential investor for the merger. We need to impress her.”