My Husband Chose His Mistress – Then Learned Who I Was
“The Rose of Fire,” whispered a stylist in awe. “No one has seen her since that event in Geneva.”
When I saw myself in the mirror, I barely recognized the woman in the mirror. I was no longer the humiliated wife in a worn dress, because I was Phoebe Harrell, daughter of Raymond Harrell.
On the way to the hotel, Joel told me that my father had had kept my old room prepared every week. He told me that at Christmas no one could mention my name because his eyes would fill with pain, and that his health had worsened since I left.
I swallowed hard. “Please drive faster,” I urged.
The Bentley pulled up in front of the luxury Grandview Hotel. The reception staff froze as I stepped out, and though I didn’t have an invitation, no one dared stop me.
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