Trapping The Cheater With Design Chapter 2

Stepping out of the penthouse elevator and into the crisp city air, my phone buzzed. A text from my mother.

"I sent you Holden Davenport's contact card. Our families are having dinner next week to discuss the merger and the engagement. Take some time to chat with him privately before then."

"And for the record, I always told you that Wesley boy was a grifter. Thank God you saw him for who he was before you revealed our family's actual standing."

During college, I had gone to great lengths to hide the fact that I was an Ellsworth, heiress to one of the largest real estate and hospitality conglomerates in the country. I lived in a standard dorm, ate cheap takeout, and deliberately bought high-quality but logo-less clothing.

I had honestly believed that because Wesley and Jasmine met me when I was just "Margot," they loved me for me. I thought they were the real deal.

I had even pulled strings behind the scenes with my father to get Jasmine her lucrative corporate job, begging him to make it look like she earned it on her own merit.

Standing on the sidewalk, I tapped my mother's number.

"Mom? Can you tell Dad to let Mr. Bradley know he doesn't need to hold that senior promotion for Jasmine anymore?"

"Why?" she asked, her tone sharpening.

"She's the woman Wesley is cheating on me with."

The line went dead silent for three heavy seconds. Then, without a word, my mother hung up.

Five minutes later, a text came through.

"Your father spoke to Bradley. He said her performance has been mediocre at best anyway; he only kept her around as a favor to you. There was a prestigious month-long fellowship in London they were about to send her on. Consider it canceled."

I stared at the text. Just last week, Jasmine had been practically vibrating with joy over a "secret London opportunity," promising to cook us a massive celebration dinner once it was official.

I looked up just in time to see two familiar figures walking toward the building's lavish double doors, arm in arm.

The moment they saw me, they sprang apart like they’d been electrocuted.

I spoke first, letting my eyebrows shoot up in perfect, feigned surprise. "Wesley? Jasmine? I thought you said you were stuck at the office all weekend. What are you guys doing in this neighborhood?"

Jasmine’s face drained of color. She stammered, her eyes darting wildly. "Oh! Um, I have an aunt who lives in this building. She hasn't been feeling well, and I... I asked Wesley to drive me to drop off some soup."

I nodded slowly, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make them sweat.

"Well, you better hurry up then," I said lightly. "Don't want the soup to get cold."

As I sat in the back of my Uber, my phone chimed. Jasmine had tagged me in our group chat.

"Margot! Come over for dinner tonight! I'm making a huge spread to celebrate—I got the London fellowship!"

I smiled to myself, the reflection in the window looking back at me with cold, dead eyes. I typed back: "Can't wait."

When I walked into Jasmine’s apartment that evening, the space looked noticeably bare.

I looked around, feigning casual curiosity. "Where did your velvet armchair go? Are you redecorating?"

She and Wesley shared a quick, secret look, a smirk playing on their lips.

"Actually, Margot, I'm thinking of moving soon," Jasmine said smoothly. "Once I’m settled in the new place, you'll have to come to the housewarming."

They truly thought I was completely blind. They had no idea I was literally the architect of their new home.

As they fell into a practiced rhythm in the kitchen—chopping vegetables side-by-side like a seasoned married couple—I quietly reached under the coffee table where Jasmine kept her mail and receipts.

A receipt for a couples' weekend at a luxury spa resort in Sedona. The dates perfectly matched the week Wesley told me he was locked in a brutal corporate retreat. Beneath that, a stack of dinner receipts from high-end steakhouses.

And right next to them, resting in a velvet box, was a silver chain bracelet. The exact match to the one Wesley was currently wearing on his right wrist.

I took out my phone and photographed every single item before they walked back into the living room.

Sitting at the dining table, staring down at the bubbling, deep-red broth of the spicy Szechuan hot pot, my stomach gave a phantom cramp.

It was Jasmine's absolute favorite.

And it was the one thing I was strictly forbidden to eat. I had undergone surgery for a bleeding ulcer just three weeks ago. Spicy food was entirely off-limits.

Wesley knew every nuance of Jasmine’s cravings, but he had entirely erased my physical existence from his mind.

Noticing I hadn't picked up my chopsticks, Jasmine paused, a slice of wagyu beef halfway to her mouth. "Margot? Why aren't you eating?"

"I had stomach surgery three weeks ago, remember?" I said, my voice flat. "I can't eat anything spicy."

The room went instantly, suffocatingly still.

Jasmine reached out, her face twisting into a mask of exaggerated guilt. "Oh my god, Margot, I am so sorry. I completely forgot. What do you want? Let me go make you some plain pasta—"

"Don't bother." I swatted her hand away, harder than necessary.

Wesley saw Jasmine flinch and his face darkened. He slammed his chopsticks down.

"Margot, you're being ridiculous," he snapped. "Jasmine bends over backward to accommodate you, and you're going to throw a tantrum over a simple mistake?"

Looking at his flushed, indignant face—defending his mistress to his girlfriend—a laugh bubbled up from my chest. I couldn't hold it in.

"What kind of performance is this?" I asked, waving my hand dismissively. "I just meant don't bother cooking. Let me use your phone, Wesley. I'll order some takeout."