Lipstick, Lies, and Lamb-chops
Prologue
Madeline Sterling-Davenport had built her life on the illusion of perfection. The sprawling estate, the designer wardrobe, the effortless grace of a woman who had it all. But perfection had its price, and for seven exasperating years, Richard had been hers to bear.
On an otherwise picturesque Thursday morning, she sat at Fireside Flavors, delicately breaking apart a flaky croissant, the aroma of freshly brewed oat milk latte curling around her like a warm embrace. For a brief moment, everything felt right.
Then she saw him.
Across the street, Richard—her husband, her mistake, her slow-burning regret—was wrapped around another woman. A brunette. Young, long-limbed, and toned in a way that suggested hours at a private gym. But it wasn't just the infidelity that made Madeline's stomach drop. It was the watch.
The diamond AP watch.
The one she had painstakingly chosen for Richard's birthday three months ago, believing, like a fool, that such gifts could anchor a man who had never truly belonged to her.
Her breath caught. The betrayal hit like scalding espresso down her throat, bitter and unforgiving.
She had driven home in a silence that hummed louder than any music could have. No tears. No screaming. Just that hollow, glacial calm that settled in her bones like frostbite.
The soft click of Madeline's heels echoed through the marble foyer like an impatient metronome, each step ticking away the last of her restraint. The air inside the house was thick—too still, too quiet, like it knew something was coming. The faint scent of bergamot from the diffuser lingered, but it couldn't mask the rot beneath the surface.
She set her purse down with a sharp thud, the gold clasp snapping shut like a trap.
Her lips curled into a bitter smile.
Of course he'd be home already.
"Richard?" she called, syrupy-sweet. "Darling, I'm home."
Silence answered her.
Typical.
She found him in the den, splayed across the leather sectional like a smug king who hadn't just been caught with his pants metaphorically down. His loafers were kicked off. One socked foot was resting on the glass coffee table she'd imported from Milan. He sipped amber bourbon from a crystal tumbler and scrolled through his phone like he wasn't a man hanging by a thread.
He looked up, startled. "Hey, babe. Didn't expect you back so soon."
Madeline removed her sunglasses slowly, revealing eyes sharp enough to carve meat. "Lucky you."
Richard smiled—lazy, oblivious. "You look tense. Long day?"
She blinked. Once. Twice. Like a predator resisting the urge to pounce.
"Oh, the usual," she said lightly. "Brunch with the girls. Bought a new lip gloss. Caught my husband lip-locked with his secretary outside Café Lamour. You know. Tuesday things."
The color drained from Richard's face with the elegance of a cheap cocktail down a white shirt. But his voice—his voice—remained maddeningly calm.
"Madeline, it's not what it looked like."
She let out a laugh so cold it could've cracked glass. "How refreshing, because it looked like you were practicing tongue resuscitation on a woman who still uses cheap department store glitter eyeliner."
He sat up straighter, jaw twitching. "You're overreacting."
"Oh, honey," she said, taking slow steps toward him, her heels sinking slightly into the plush rug like daggers into flesh. "Dramatic would be me slashing your tires and mailing your prized Rolex to that blow-up doll in heels you call an assistant."
Richard set his drink down with a clink. "We've had this conversation. Jenna is—"
"Young. Impressionable. Thinks you're sexy because she hasn't seen you in you before your 4D liposuction, hair implants, and Botox."
His mouth opened to argue but she was already spinning away, golden hair whipping like a silk blade over her shoulder.
"I loved you once," she said, softer now, with the weight of something buried deep. "But...that was a mistake that I will never do again."
Richard's voice finally faltered. "Madeline—"
She waved a perfectly pink manicured hand, silencing him with nothing but grace and contempt.
"Dinner's in the fridge," she called as she headed up the stairs, her voice cool as glass. "I made lamb. Thought you might need the iron, since your mistress is clearly draining you."
Behind the sanctuary of her bedroom door, she dropped the mask. Her chest rose and fell—once, twice—as fury congealed into something colder, sharper.
She walked to the mirror, took in her reflection. Smudged mascara. Flushed cheeks. A woman not broken—but breaking free.
The fury simmered into a new kind of resolve.
And become something far more dangerous.
This is it.
It was time to stop playing the hurt wife. Time to become the woman people regretted betraying.
Divorce? No. That was his game. He would drag her through the courts, manipulate the press, charm the judges with that boyish smirk, and walk away unscathed.
She was thinking of something more permanent.
