The ultimate betrayal

I'm a neurosurgeon who makes seven figures. I support my husband, Jackson, and his entire family. For months, I planned the perfect St. Barts vacation for all of us, paying for every last detail.

Two days before departure, Jackson dropped a bombshell. He gave my first-class ticket to his ex-girlfriend, Amber.

My new itinerary? A series of budget flights, ending with a plane known for crashing into a cliffside.

His family, living off my money, agreed. "You're resilient," he said. "Amber's more delicate."

My own mother-in-law, whose safety concerns got her a first-class upgrade I paid for, told me Amber "needs this more than you do."

I wasn't family. I was just their ATM, and my life was a small price to pay for their comfort.

That night, I found Amber sleeping in my bed. The rage was cold and clear. I canceled the trip. I froze their accounts. And I called my lawyer.

"File for divorce. And prepare to collect on the multi-million dollar loan they owe me."

Chapter 1

I never thought the day would come when my husband, Jackson, would trade my first-class seat for his ex-girlfriend' s budget fare, especially when I was paying for everything. Jackson was a personal trainer. Not just any trainer, but one who specialized in 'boutique wellness,' which meant he worked with a handful of clients who paid a lot for not much. This St. Barts vacation was my idea. My gift. As a neurosurgeon, my weeks were measured in lives saved and million-dollar invoices. My hands, steady and precise, earned more in a single consultation than Jackson made in a month of his 'wellness' sessions. The disparity wasn't just stark; it was astronomical. My seven-figure income dwarfed his modest earnings, a fact we rarely spoke about but that hummed beneath every conversation like a low-frequency drone.

I'd spent months planning this trip. Months. Every detail, from the private villa to the bespoke excursions, had been meticulously organized by me. St. Barts isn't a quick hop. It requires multiple flights, private charters, and permits. It's a place where luxury meets logistical nightmares if you don't know what you're doing. Visas, transfers, health declarations – I handled every single piece of paperwork. For six people. Including Jackson's parents, Jefferson and Cornelia, and his twenty-year-old sister, Jordan. Not once did any of them offer to help. Their contribution was simply showing up with their designer luggage, packed with clothes I' d bought for them.

Jefferson and Cornelia lived in my guest house. A sprawling, renovated carriage house on my estate that they called their 'annex.' Their 'old money' fortune had disappeared years ago, leaving them with nothing but a sense of entitlement and my bank accounts. Jordan, still in college, had never known a life without my financial support. Her sorority fees, her luxury car, her endless wardrobe – all on my dime. And I didn't resent it. Not truly. I loved Jackson. I loved his family, or at least the idea of them. I enjoyed being the provider, the one who could make their dreams of a lavish life come true.

My work was my passion. My name, Dr. Hailey Hogan, resonated in the medical community. I was flying to conferences, presenting breakthroughs, saving lives. I was good at what I did, and it showed. Taking time off was an operation in itself, requiring months of rescheduling surgeries and delegating critical cases. My patients depended on me. When Cornelia expressed 'concerns' about the charter flight's safety, I upgraded everyone to first-class commercial flights, despite the exorbitant cost. 'For peace of mind,' she'd said, nodding primly.

Two days before departure, Jackson dropped the bombshell. "Hailey," he began, fidgeting with his watch, "Amber's joining us."

Amber? His ex-girlfriend? The one who abandoned him when his family went broke?

"Yeah. She's going through a tough time, and Mom and Dad really wanted her there. So, we, uh, swapped your first-class ticket for hers. You'll be taking the budget route with the other, uh, connections."

My phone buzzed. A PDF attachment. 'St. Barts Budget Route – Hailey Hogan.' It detailed a series of puddle-jumper flights, layovers in obscure islands, and a final, terrifying propeller plane landing on a famously short, cliff-side runway. I googled the last leg. 'One of the world's most dangerous airports.' Annual fatalities. My blood ran cold.