My Husband’s Honey Trap

I was caught by Damon Blackwood, who brought people to expose my supposed affair.

The man with me was his business rival.

Reporters' cameras and microphones shoved into my face, completely disregarding my half-naked state.

Damon spoke with a tone of cool command:

Does Mr. Riley lack women so much that he'd even lay hands on my wife? "Darling, come here."

However, I simply displayed my divorce certificate and marriage certificate, then linked arms with Ethan Riley.

"I'm sorry, but we are legally married."

"Damon, you've forgotten, we're divorced. You proposed it yourself." He wanted me to get a fake divorce to frame Ethan Riley with my reputation.

It's laughable. I finally remarried, didn't I?

Go back? Dream on.

On our third wedding anniversary, I was getting an IV at the hospital.

Acute gastroenteritis. I was curled up like a shrimp on the cold chair in the emergency room, writhing in pain. All around me, there was the noisy chatter of people, the cries of children, the anxious urgency of family members. Only my spot was quiet, like an isolated island.

My phone screen lit up and dimmed, the last message still lingering from three hours ago, when I sent Damon: "Damon, my stomach hurts so much, I'm at City Hospital Three."

No reply.

It wasn't until the liquid in the IV bag was almost empty, and a nurse called out "Bed 23, medication change," that I managed to raise my hand to press the call button. Just then, a red dot popped up on social media.

It was from Sarah Miller.

The accompanying picture showed a long, beautiful hand adjusting a diamond necklace around her neck. I had seen that hand for three years, touched it for three years; I'd recognize it even if it were ashes. It had distinct knuckles and a faint mole on the web of the thumb.

The caption read: "After all this time, your taste is still the best. Thank you for the birthday gift, Damon."

The location was the city's most upscale shopping mall, barely two miles from my hospital.

In that instant, the cramping in my stomach seemed to spread along my nerves to my heart. I turned off my phone, pulled out the needle, a bead of blood seeped from the back of my hand, quickly congealing.

It was late night when I got home.

The villa was dark; Damon hadn't returned.

I instinctively went to the kitchen to warm a glass of milk. As I carried it out, the fingerprint lock on the front door chimed. Damon walked in, bringing with him a chill and a faint scent of perfume. It was Sarah Miller's favorite "Desert Rose," intense and bold, utterly different from the lingering smell of laundry detergent I carried.

"Why aren't you asleep yet?" He loosened his tie, tossing it onto the sofa without even glancing at me.

"Today is our wedding anniversary." I clutched the warm cup, my voice a little hoarse.

Damon paused, then frowned, rubbing his temples impatiently: "I'm very busy, Evelyn. The company is currently bidding on that project in Southside, and Ethan Riley is pushing hard. I don't have time to celebrate such a boring holiday with you."

A boring holiday.

This day last year, he was at an exhibition with Sarah Miller; the year before that, he was working late at the office, having his secretary wire me ten thousand dollars.

"I went to the hospital today." I said softly, looking at his back.

"Oh, aren't you back now? Seems like nothing's wrong." He didn't even turn to ask "What happened?", walking straight to his study. "I have something important to discuss with you, come in."

The study was lit by harsh, pale light.

Damon sat behind the large desk, his expression typically cold and rational. He pulled a document from a drawer and slid it across to me.

I saw the words clearly"Divorce Agreement."

My mind buzzed, but I didn't cry. I just stared blankly at him: "Is it for Sarah Miller?"

"Don't get ahead of yourself." Damon tapped the table, his tone carrying a business-like inducement, "This is strategy. Evelyn, you know Ethan Riley, he's a lecherous, philandering man, but he holds the key vote for the Southside project. We can't win by force."

I looked up, disbelievingly, at the man I had loved for seven years.

"So?"

"We'll get a fake divorce." Damon leaned forward, his gaze fixed on me, as if I were a useful pawn. "You'll approach Ethan Riley as a single woman. He's recently shown interest in you in public. As long as you can get his lowest bid, or catch him committing commercial bribery, this project will belong to the Blackwood family."

I felt all the blood in my body draining, my hands and feet frighteningly cold.

"You want me to seduce him?"

"Just approach him, I'm not asking you to do anything real." Damon's tone was light, as if he were discussing tomorrow's breakfast, "You are my wife, for our future, what is this small sacrifice? Once the project is secured, we'll remarry immediately. Then, we'll have a grand wedding to compensate you."

Compensate.

Using my dignity, my purity, to expand his business empire.

"What if I refuse?"

Damon's face turned cold, that fleeting hint of false tenderness instantly vanished: "Evelyn Whitaker, the Whitaker family's finances still rely on Blackwood Enterprises. Who pays for your comatose brother's monthly expenses at the nursing home? One should know how to be grateful."

This was his trump card.

He had seized my weakness, precise and cruel.

I looked at him, and suddenly his face felt so unfamiliar. When did the boy who blocked a ball for me on the university field, the man who promised to protect me for life at our wedding, truly die?

Perhaps, he had never truly lived. The one alive had always been this shrewd and self-serving Mr. Blackwood.

"Alright." I heard my voice, dry, respond, "I'll sign."

Damon smiled with satisfaction, walked over, and patted my shoulder, as if rewarding an obedient dog: "That's right. Don't worry, it's just a formality. In my heart, you'll always be my wife."

I lowered my head, hiding the ashen despair in my eyes.

In your heart?

Damon, your heart only holds profit; there's no room for a person.

The formalities were handled quickly.

To make the act convincing, Damon even arranged for the media to "paparazzi" us leaving the civil affairs office. In the photos, my face was pale, his expression cold, and the headline was a sensational "High Society Dream Shattered: Blackwood CEO Dumps His Old Wife."

I moved out of the villa and into an apartment he arranged.

According to Damon's plan, I needed to "accidentally" encounter Ethan Riley at a private party he frequently attended.

That night, I wore a backless black evening gown. Damon had personally chosen it, saying Ethan Riley liked that styleboth cool and alluringly seductive.

The woman in the mirror, with her exquisite makeup, had eyes as empty as a puppet's.

The party was held at a mansion nestled on a hillside.

I held a glass of champagne, standing in a corner, watching Ethan Riley at the center of the crowd.

He was different from the rumors. Rumor had it that the eldest son of the Riley family was eccentric, changing women like clothes. But at this moment, he was dressed in a well-tailored dark blue suit, holding a stem glass, listening to someone next to him, a faint smile on his lips, yet his eyes were remarkably clear, with an air of casual detachment.

Damon's task for me was: to spill wine on him, to get his attention.

What a crude and vulgar clich.

But I had to do it.

I took a deep breath, adjusted my expression, and pretended to stumble, heading straight for Ethan Riley.

The expected gasp and spilled wine didn't happen.

He caught me, but his elbow accidentally brushed my chest.

We both froze for a second.

"Sorry." He spoke first, his earlobes slightly red.

I hadn't expected someone like Ethan Riley to be embarrassed. This made me even more nervousif he were an old hand, I'd know how to deal with him, but like this

"Careful." He steadied me, his voice very low.

For some reason, my heart was beating a little fast. Probably because I almost fell. Yes, definitely because of that.

I looked up, meeting his eyes.

He was smiling. But it wasn't a mocking smile; it was a kind of playful smile I couldn't quite decipher.

"Miss Whitaker" He paused, leaning closer to my ear, his voice so soft only I could hear, "Was this 'falling into my arms' trick taught to you by Damon Blackwood? Or did you come up with it yourself?"

My mind went completely blank.

How did he know?

"Don't panic." He held my wrist, not tightly, but enough to prevent my escape. "Since you're here, you have to play your part well. The cameras over there are all watching."

He said "part."

He knew I was acting.

He knew everything.

I opened my mouth, not knowing what to say. My mind was blank, with only one thought frantically looping:

I'm done for.

I instinctively tried to escape, but he gently held my wrist. He leaned down, close to my ear, a gesture so intimate it felt like he was whispering sweet nothings: "Don't panic. Since you're here, you have to play your part well. The cameras over there are all on us."

He then took the glass from my hand, tipped it back, and drained it, then raised his voice, with a hint of playful teasing: "This wine is excellent, Miss Whitaker. Would you do me the honor of a dance?"

I was led onto the dance floor like a puppet on strings.

His palm was broad and warm, and the heat transferred through the thin fabric, making my heart race with anxiety.

"Why?" I whispered, "Since you know I was"

"Because I wanted to see how far Damon Blackwood, that blind man, would push you." Ethan Riley twirled me, his gaze falling on my face, without any hint of flirtation, but instead with a pity? that I couldn't understand.

"Are you also here to use me?" I scoffed.

"Use you?" Ethan Riley raised an eyebrow, "What if I said I'm here to save you?"

That night, I didn't get the supposed "leverage," but Ethan Riley took me back to his private villa.

Not to sleep with me.

He had the housekeeper make me a steaming bowl of noodles and even thoughtfully arranged for makeup remover and skincare products.

"Eat and then sleep in the guest room. Don't worry, I'm not interested in forcing women." He leaned against the door, idly playing with a lighter, "Go back and tell Damon Blackwood that I've taken the bait. Have him send you the next phase of the plan."

I clutched the bowl of noodles, the steam stinging my eyes.

"Why are you helping me?"

Ethan Riley looked at me, his eyes as deep as the sea: "Evelyn Whitaker, you might not remember. Three years ago, you fed a stray cat by the roadside. It was raining heavily that day, you didn't have an umbrella, but you left yours for that cat."

I was stunned.

"At that time, I thought, how pitiful this naive girl would be if she fell into the wrong hands." He gave a self-deprecating laugh, "Unfortunately, I was a step too late, and you married that bastard Damon Blackwood."

Over the next month, I became a frequent guest by Ethan Riley's side.

The outside world was buzzing, saying Evelyn Whitaker, fresh off her divorce, had already latched onto Mr. Riley. Clearly, she was a woman who couldn't stand being alone.

Damon was quite pleased with this progress. He even praised me over the phone: "Well done, Evelyn. Keep him hooked, preferably get the core data from his computer."

I held the phone, looking at Ethan Riley, who was sitting across from me, peeling shrimp for me. My heart was a mix of emotions.

Ethan Riley was busy, but he never made me wait.

If I casually mentioned wanting chestnuts from the west side of the city, he would drive halfway across town to buy them; if my stomach hurt during my period, he would cancel meetings to come back and make me ginger tea, and clumsily use his warm hands to rub my belly.

No comparison, no harm.

With Damon, I was air, a housekeeper, a tool.

With Ethan Riley, for the first time, I felt like a living, breathing person, a cherished woman.

But I still dared not fall for it. I feared it was another abyss.

Until that day.

Damon told me to go to his company to pick up a "fake" confidential business document, intended to win Ethan Riley's trust.

I arrived at the Blackwood Tower, and the secretary said Mr. Blackwood was in a meeting and asked me to wait in his office.

The office door was slightly ajar.

From inside, Sarah Miller's sweet voice drifted out: "Damon, should we set our wedding date for next month? The weather will be perfect, and it won't be cold for a wedding dress."

My hand, reaching to push the door open, froze in mid-air.

Then came Damon's voice, with a tenderness I had never heard: "Whatever you wish. The wedding dress is already being custom-made in Paris, by your favorite designer."

"What about Evelyn Whitaker? Isn't she still helping you with the mission?"

"Hmph, that fool." Damon sneered, his voice filled with contempt, "Once she gets Ethan Riley's data and the Riley family falls, she'll be useless. Then, I'll just give her some money and send her away. If she dares to cause trouble"

His voice dropped, becoming sinister: "Then don't blame me for abandoning old ties and cutting off her comatose brother's medication."

Boom

The last shred of hope in my mind completely shattered at that moment.

It turned out there was no "fake divorce."

It turned out there was no "remarriage compensation."

From beginning to end, this was a complete deception. He not only wanted to use me to bring down his rival but also to squeeze out my last bit of value, then discard me like trash, even threatening my only family member.

I stood at the doorway, trembling all over, my nails digging deep into my palms, drawing blood.

I don't remember how I left.

I walked like a ghost on the street, my mind filled with Damon Blackwood's words: "fool."

Yes, I was a fool.

Foolish enough to think that giving genuine affection would be reciprocated, foolish enough to help someone count money after being sold by them.

I don't know how long I walked before a black Maybach pulled up beside me.

The window lowered, revealing Ethan Riley's anxious face.

"Evelyn! What are you doing here? You're not answering your phone, do you know how worried I've been?"

He rushed out of the car and pulled my cold body into his embrace. That hug was so warm, so tight, as if he wanted to meld me into his very bones.

"Ethan" I clutched his lapels, and my tears finally broke free, "I want to get married."

Ethan paused, then cupped my face, looking earnestly into my eyes: "What did you say?"

"I want to marry you. Really marry you." I stared at him, my eyes burning with the fire of revenge, "Do you dare to marry me?"

Ethan Riley smiled.

There was no calculation, no weighing of pros and cons in that smile, only the wild joy of having his wish fulfilled and a reckless, profound affection.

"Evelyn Whitaker, I've waited three years for those words."