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The first splash of red wine struck my eight-month-pregnant stomach before I even realized my husband’s mistress had tilted her glass toward me. As the dark liquid spread across my champagne-colored gown, my husband stood beside her, his hand resting on her lower back, and ordered me to go upstairs and clean myself up. What he didn't know was that before the evening ended, the one man he had spent years trying to avoid would walk through those ballroom doors carrying a cream-colored envelope that could destroy everything Grayson Whitmore had built.