The cold blue glow of the cell phone screen stabbed at Jenny Watson's eyes like ice shards in the dark. She blinked instinctively, but the sting remained—not just in her eyes, but now boring into her chest. The light reflected off her face, once warm and flushed, now ghostly pale and drained of color. Her lips parted slightly, trembling, as she swiped through the photos—each image slicing deeper than the last.
There it was. Switzerland. A dreamland of untouched snow and majestic, white-capped mountains standing tall like mocking sentinels to her humiliation. It was supposed to be the kind of place you'd visit for a honeymoon, not a heartbreak.
In the first photo, Damon Watson—her husband—was grinning broadly, that familiar, annoyingly charming grin he wore when he thought he was untouchable. His arm was tightly looped around a woman's waist. A woman Jenny didn't recognize. But she didn't need to. Her gaze locked not on the woman, but on Damon's navy-blue ski suit. She knew it well. She had spent weeks picking it out last Christmas, consulting fashion blogs and ski gear reviews, hoping it would keep him warm. Now, she felt physically sick.
He had told her he was flying to Switzerland for business. "Something critical," he'd said. "The Watson Group's expansion in the European market depends on it." And of course—he added in that casually dismissive way of his—he regretted missing Valentine's Day. "But we'll celebrate when I get back. I promise."
That promise now lay shattered across the snowy scenes captured in her phone: Damon and the mystery woman pressed together in a warm embrace against the freezing white; the two of them laughing, noses touching, their ski goggles perched atop tousled hair; and worst of all, an intimate close-up—Damon, eyes soft, placing a kiss on the woman's forehead beneath the golden glow of a hotel bedside lamp.
Every image was a blade dipped in venom. The room around her seemed to contract, the luxury apartment suddenly too silent, too suffocating.
The message had come from an anonymous sender. No text. No signature. Just the images. Brutal. Clinical. Truth laid bare without commentary.
Jenny's fingers turned icy. She could barely feel the device in her hand. Even the air smelled wrong—like Damon's cologne, that spicy-cedar scent he wore daily, now tainted and cloying. The mix of mountain freshness and designer fragrance used to soothe her. Now it made her want to vomit.
Her breath quickened. She fought against it, willing her chest to rise and fall evenly. Damon had always been cocky, yes. He lived like rules were suggestions and consequences were for lesser men. But this wasn't just arrogance. This was betrayal, plain and vicious. And somehow, that made it worse.
He had chased her so fervently once. She remembered the lawn at Stanford, the sun dipping low behind the red-roofed buildings, Damon strumming a guitar and singing off-key, eyes locked on hers. His charm had worked on everyone, but with her, he seemed… earnest. Vulnerable. She remembered the warmth of his touch, the ridiculous poems, the candlelit nights he'd spent convincing her she was the only one who'd ever mattered.
She remembered believing him.
She had thought, foolishly, that her love had tamed him. That she had achieved what no other woman could: made Damon Watson choose.
But in the end, it turned out she was just another "flower" in the garden he refused to forsake.
The phone slipped from her numb fingers, hitting the thick Persian rug with a dull thud. The screen remained lit, the last photo frozen—a moment she could never unsee.
Slowly, shakily, Jenny stood. At 172cm, she normally stood with the poised elegance of a former honor student turned society wife. Now, she teetered slightly, her knees momentarily untrustworthy. She made her way to the towering floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the glittering skyline like a picture of a life she had once wanted. The city below twinkled in polite oblivion. Warm lights. Happy homes. None of them could penetrate the glacial chill sealing her heart.
Damon didn't know she had seen the photos. That thought gave her power. A sudden, quiet clarity settled over her rage like frost on glass.
Let him stay ignorant for now.
She pressed her forehead to the cool glass, recalling not just the betrayal, but everything that had led her here—the sacrifices, the silent humiliations, the toxic grace of being the Watson wife.
For over a year, she had not worked. Damon and his mother, Amber, had made sure of that. Instead, her days revolved around spa treatments to keep her body "presentation-ready," dinner parties filled with meaningless chatter, and playing the gracious daughter-in-law to a woman who never saw her as anything more than a broodmare.
Amber's words echoed like bile:
"A woman's tummy must earn her place."
"When I was your age, Damon would've had two toddlers already."
They had even dangled a reward—100 million dollars—if she gave birth. As if motherhood was a transaction. As if her value was defined by her uterus.
She, Jenny Watson, a business major from Stanford who had built her career from scratch despite growing up without parents, was now being bartered like livestock.
And if she left Damon, the prenuptial agreement ensured she'd walk away with nothing. Not a cent. Not even a car.
Damon, so calculating. So vain. So possessive. He'd never let her leave easily.
So she wouldn't leave. Not yet.
She'd have the child.
And take the money.
But not Damon's child.
He didn't deserve to father anything of hers.
The thought crept into her mind like ink in water—dark, irreversible. James Watson. Damon's elder brother. Smart. Kind. Everything Damon wasn't. And Damon hated him for it.
The image formed vividly: Damon, discovering that the heir he bragged about wasn't his. That the legacy he'd claimed had been usurped by the brother he despised.
Jenny's lips curled slightly. The vision thrilled her. Not with joy—but with justice.
Revenge wasn't just an idea anymore.
It was purpose.
It was clarity in chaos.
It was survival.
And maybe, in some twisted way, it was love—love for herself, at last.
She wiped the tears from her cheeks, lifted her chin, and looked out again at the endless lights. Let them sparkle. Let the world keep turning.
But the Watsons had no idea what was coming for them.
Not yet.
But soon.
Very soon.