The Other Woman — P.J. Adams

I didn't set out to seduce him. But then I rarely do. Things just happen.



His wife must hate me, of course.



She must have hated me even before she knew who I was, when I was still just a fragment of doubt in her mind; when I was no more than a few clues that finally gave substance to her fears. A blonde hair on the jacket, a smear of lipstick, a trace of a scent she never used. A lie from her husband that didn't quite tally with all the previous husband lies. Unexplained items on the credit card bill, or on the mobile phone bill.



Taken singly: none of these were conclusive.



Taken together: me. Ellie Jordan. In my early twenties. Slim, blonde, perfect cheekbones, big blue eyes, perfect shape, legs to die for.



I was Rebecca's worst nightmare and her husband's wet dream. Does that make me a slut?