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My Husband's Dirty Little Secret

My Husband's Dirty Little Secret

Gavin

5.0
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11
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Scarlett May Johnson could sing a heartache, but she could also be hungry. So, when Nashville record mogul Silas Blackwood offered her a deal – and a marriage proposal – she said yes. It wasn't love, just a shortcut to her dreams. Soon, her life became a gilded cage: cold marble, silent halls, and a husband who rarely touched her. Her one escape was Blackwood Ridge Lodge, a wild retreat where she found raw, forbidden passion with a rugged guide named Cody. Then the truth shattered everything. "He shows us... those ATV action videos," a drunk business associate slurred to me one night. My blood ran cold. Videos? Later, I found a hidden folder on Silas's tablet: high-quality, multi-angle recordings of Cody and me at the lodge. Every intimate moment, captured. And according to his friends, he'd been *sharing* them. My escape, my passion, my secret life – all a twisted performance for his sick profit. When I confronted him, Silas didn't deny it. He simply handed me divorce papers, a paltry payout, and an iron-clad NDA. "$100,000. You breathe a word, and your music career is dead." The humiliation was a physical ache, hotter than any ambition. I was no longer an artist; I was a pawn in an old man's twisted game, violated, discarded without a care. The naive country girl was gone, replaced by a cold, searing rage. And then, a package arrived. From Cody. Inside, a small device and a note: "Sometimes the prey has to become the hunter." Silas Blackwood thought he had won. He was dead wrong. I was ready to hunt.

Introduction

Scarlett May Johnson could sing a heartache, but she could also be hungry. So, when Nashville record mogul Silas Blackwood offered her a deal – and a marriage proposal – she said yes. It wasn't love, just a shortcut to her dreams. Soon, her life became a gilded cage: cold marble, silent halls, and a husband who rarely touched her. Her one escape was Blackwood Ridge Lodge, a wild retreat where she found raw, forbidden passion with a rugged guide named Cody.

Then the truth shattered everything.

"He shows us... those ATV action videos," a drunk business associate slurred to me one night. My blood ran cold. Videos? Later, I found a hidden folder on Silas's tablet: high-quality, multi-angle recordings of Cody and me at the lodge. Every intimate moment, captured. And according to his friends, he'd been *sharing* them. My escape, my passion, my secret life – all a twisted performance for his sick profit.

When I confronted him, Silas didn't deny it. He simply handed me divorce papers, a paltry payout, and an iron-clad NDA. "$100,000. You breathe a word, and your music career is dead."

The humiliation was a physical ache, hotter than any ambition. I was no longer an artist; I was a pawn in an old man's twisted game, violated, discarded without a care. The naive country girl was gone, replaced by a cold, searing rage.

And then, a package arrived. From Cody. Inside, a small device and a note: "Sometimes the prey has to become the hunter." Silas Blackwood thought he had won. He was dead wrong. I was ready to hunt.

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