After the charity gala, I caught my husband cheating on me with his VP of Marketing.

A low, intimate laugh came from Derek's locked office.

I froze, an earring slipping from my finger. The sound came from his private office, the one even the cleaning staff locked.

I approached, bracing myself for something unknown.

"Charlie doesn't understand me the way you do."

I heard Derek's gentle, intimate voice when I was only three feet from the door.

Then it was her.

Vivian Clarke.

His VP of Marketing.

Wearing the dress I'd complimented hours earlier—sitting on his desk, his hand on her waist, intimately.

I didn't gasp. Instead, I stood there for a full three seconds, with a shock-stricken calm, meticulously recording every detail.

The way her fingers were twirling in his hair. The lipstick mark on his collar.The champagne gla-sses on his desk two of them, half-empty, celebratory.

Then I closed the door. Carefully, silently. So quietly that they didn't even notice.

He's a hero in their eyes. A visionary. A godda-mn saint.

And I'm the idiot who believed him.

This perfect life is a lie, and I’m done playing along.

——

The diamonds feel heavier coming off than they did going on.

I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, fingers working the clasp of the Cartier necklace Derrick gave me for our fifth anniversary. The woman staring back at me looks like she belongs in a magazine spread sleek updo, perfect makeup, designer gown that probably cost more than most people's monthly mortgage. But her eyes are tired. No, not tired. Empty.

I finally get the necklace undone and set it on the marble counter with a soft clink. The sound echoes in the cavernous bathroom, all gleaming fixtures and heated floors. This penthouse has everything. Everything except the one thing I actually need a husband who looks at me like I matter.

Tonight was supposed to be special. The Annual Blackwood Foundation Gala, where Derrick's company donates obscene amounts of money to various charities while everyone congratulates themselves on being such good people. I smiled for three hours straight, posed for photos, made small talk with women who sized up my dress before they even glanced at my face. And through it all, Derrick barely touched me. Barely looked at me. The moment we walked through the door twenty minutes ago, he disappeared into his office with a murmured excuse about "urgent emails."

At midnight. On a Saturday.

I reach for the earrings next, my movements mechanical. How did I get here? Five years ago, I thought I was marrying my best friend. Derrick was charming, attentive, pa-ssionate about his work but always making time for us. Now I'm just another expensive acquisition in his collection of beautiful things.

A sound drifts through the bedroom. Laughter low and intimate, the kind that makes your stomach flip when it's meant for you. But it's not meant for me. I haven't heard Derrick laugh like that in months. Maybe longer.

I freeze, one earring dangling from my fingers. My heart does this weird stuttering thing in my chest, like it knows something my brain hasn't quite processed yet. The office. The sound came from his private office, the one he keeps locked even from the cleaning staff.

Another laugh. Lighter this time. Feminine.

My hands move without conscious thought, setting down the earring, reaching for the silk robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door. I slip it on over my gown, the familiar weight of it somehow grounding. My bare feet are silent on the plush carpet as I cross the bedroom, past the king-sized bed we barely share anymore, toward the sliver of light beneath his office door.

I should turn around. Pour myself a gla-ss of wine, take off this ridiculous dress, crawl into bed and pretend I don't hear what I'm hearing. That's what the old Charlie would do the Charlie who spent the last year making excuses, convincing herself that Derrick's distance was just stress from work, that the spark would come back once things settled down.

But my feet keep moving. Because somewhere deep in my bones, I already know. Maybe I've known for a while and just didn't want to look at it too closely. The late nights. The pa-ssword-protected phone. The way he flinches when I touch him, like my hands are something to be tolerated rather than welcomed.

I'm three feet from the door when I hear it. My name. Spoken in that tender, intimate way that used to make me melt.

"Charlie doesn't understand me the way you do."

Derrick's voice. But it's wrong all wrong because it's soft and vulnerable, stripped of the cold indifference he's shown me for months. He's giving someone else the version of himself I've been begging for. The version I thought was mine.

The world tilts sideways. I reach out, steadying myself against the wall, trying to breathe through the sudden tightness in my chest. Part of me wants to run. Get back in the bathroom, lock the door, pretend this isn't happening. But a bigger part the part that's been slowly waking up over these past few months of loneliness needs to know.

Needs to see.

My hand finds the doorknob. It's cool under my palm, solid and real in a moment that feels increasingly surreal. Behind this door is the truth I've been avoiding. Behind this door, everything changes.

I take one last breath. Then I turn the knob and push.

The door opens six inches before I see her.

She's perched on the edge of Derrick's desk, legs crossed, wearing a dress I recognize because I complimented it earlier tonight. Vivian Clarke. His VP of Marketing. The woman who laughed at all his jokes during dinner, who touched his arm just a second too long when she congratulated him on his speech. My husband's hands are on her waist, his body angled toward hers in a way that screams intimacy, familiarity. This isn't their first time.

I don't gasp. Don't cry out. Don't do any of the dramatic things you're supposed to do when you catch your husband with another woman. Instead, I stand there for exactly three seconds, documenting every detail with the kind of clinical precision that comes from shock. The way her fingers curl into his hair. The lipstick smudge on his collar. The champagne gla-sses on his desk two of them, half-empty, celebratory.

Then I close the door. Carefully. Quietly. So quietly they don't even notice.

My body moves on autopilot, carrying me back through the bedroom, into the bathroom, where that stranger in the mirror is still waiting. She looks the same. How is that possible? How can everything inside me be splintering apart while my face remains perfectly composed, my hands steady as I reach for my makeup remover?

Because you've been practicing, a small voice whispers. You've been pretending everything is fine for so long that your body doesn't know how to do anything else.

I clean my face with methodical strokes, removing the carefully applied foundation, the smoky eyeshadow, the bold red lipstick. Each swipe of the cotton pad reveals more of the real me the version without armor, without the mask I've been wearing to convince myself my marriage isn't dying. Wasn't already dead.

The gala. God, the gala is still happening downstairs. I can hear the muffled ba-ss of the music, the periodic roar of applause as someone gives another self-congratulatory speech. Three hundred people are down there right now, drinking expensive champagne and celebrating Derrick Blackwood's generosity, his vision, his success. And in a few minutes, he'll expect me to go back down there and play the role I've perfected: the devoted wife, the perfect accessory to his perfect life.

I change out of the gown mechanically, hanging it carefully in the closet even though part of me wants to shred it into pieces. Instead, I select a different dress midnight blue, elegant but understated, with a neckline that doesn't reveal the rage building in my chest. My hands shake only slightly as I zip it up.

By the time I reapply my makeup and fix my hair, I've made a decision. I won't confront him. Not tonight. Not with three hundred witnesses and dozens of cameras documenting every moment. Derrick wants to play pretend? Fine. I've gotten very good at pretending.

The ballroom is exactly as I left it glittering, excessive, full of people who care more about being seen than actually seeing. I slip back in through a side entrance, accepting a fresh gla-ss of champagne from a pa-ssing waiter. The cool crystal against my palm is the only thing keeping me tethered to reality.

"There you are!" Margaret Ashford materializes beside me, her smile sharp enough to cut gla-ss. "We were just talking about you. That necklace you were wearing earlier Cartier, wasn't it? Derrick has such exquisite taste."

Something in her tone makes my spine stiffen. There's a knowingness in her eyes, a barely concealed smugness that sends warning bells clanging through my head. "He does," I manage, keeping my voice light.

"Men like Derrick always do." She leans in conspiratorially, and I catch a whiff of her perfume too strong, too sweet. "They know exactly what they want and how to get it. In business and in... other areas."

The champagne turns sour in my mouth. She knows. This woman, who I've made polite conversation with at a dozen events, who sent me a birthday card last year she knows about the affair. Maybe has known for months.

"If you'll excuse me," I say, already moving away before she can respond. But as I navigate through the crowd, I catch other glances, other whispers that suddenly make horrible sense. The pitying looks from Caroline Hendricks. The way Jonathan Meyer avoided eye contact during cocktail hour. The awkward silence that fell when I joined a group of wives discussing weekend plans.

They all know. Every single person in this room knows my husband is sleeping with someone else, and they've been watching me play the fool.

A spotlight hits the stage, and the crowd erupts in applause. Derrick stands there, microphone in hand, looking every inch the successful billionaire philanthropist. His smile is practiced, his posture confident. He's wearing the tie I picked out for him this morning, back when I still thought we were a team.

"Thank you all for being here tonight," he begins, his voice carrying easily across the ballroom. "Five years ago, my wife Charlie and I founded the Blackwood Foundation with a simple mission: to make a real difference in our community."

My wife Charlie. The words should warm me. Instead, they feel like a brand, marking me as property rather than partner.

He continues his speech, gesturing expansively about their achievements, their goals, their vision for the future. Our vision, he keeps saying, but his eyes scan the crowd without ever landing on me. Not once. Even now, in front of three hundred people, I'm invisible to him.

I drain my champagne and reach for another. The waiter hesitates I never drink more than one gla-ss at these events but something in my expression makes him hand it over without comment.

"Isn't he magnificent?" someone murmurs beside me. I don't turn to see who. Don't care. Just watch as my husband basks in adulation he doesn't deserve, from people who know exactly what kind of man he really is.

The speech ends with thunderous applause. Cameras flash like lightning, capturing Derrick's triumphant smile, his raised gla-ss, his promise to continue fighting the good fight. He's a hero. A visionary. A godda-mn saint.

And I'm the idiot who believed him.

He steps off the stage, immediately surrounded by admirers and sycophants. I watch as Vivian Clarke approaches from the left, her expression carefully neutral, professionally appropriate. She says something that makes him laugh that same intimate laugh I heard through the door and his hand grazes her elbow in what anyone else might mistake for a casual gesture.

But I know better now. I know the truth behind every touch, every glance, every carefully constructed lie.

The worst part? I could walk over there right now and call him out. Create a scene. Expose him in front of everyone who matters in his carefully curated world. But that's exactly what he'd want me to do give him a reason to paint me as the unstable wife, the jealous shrew, the woman who couldn't handle his success. So instead, I smile. Lift my gla-ss when others toast. Accept compliments on my dress, my hair, my "dedication to the foundation." I play my part so perfectly that no one could possibly guess that an hour ago, my entire world imploded.

By the time the gala ends at two AM, my face hurts from smiling. Derrick finds me near the exit, his hand sliding possessively around my waist as we pose for one last photo. To anyone watching, we're the perfect couple beautiful, successful, desperately in love.

"Ready to go home?" he murmurs against my ear, and I almost laugh at the absurdity. Home. As if that penthouse has felt like home in months. As if anything about our life together is real.

"Absolutely," I say, my voice steady, betraying nothing.

The camera flashes. The photographer thanks us. Derrick's hand stays on my waist as we walk toward the exit, and I let it. Let him maintain the illusion a little longer while I figure out my next move.

Because that's the thing about being underestimated, about being dismissed and overlooked and treated like you don't matter. People forget that you're watching too. Learning. Planning.

Derrick thinks I don't know. Thinks I'm still the naive woman he married, the one who believed in fairy tales and happy endings. But as we step into the cool night air, as he opens the car door with the same gentlemanly gesture he's performed a thousand times, I realize something that sends ice water through my veins.

I'm not that woman anymore. She died tonight, somewhere between opening that office door and closing it again. And whoever I'm becoming in her place? She's done playing by his rules.

POV:Derrick

Tonight was perfect.

I loosen my tie as the town car glides through the city streets, watching the buildings blur past in a satisfying stream of light and shadow. Three hundred of the most influential people in New York just spent four hours celebrating everything I've built. The foundation raised 2.3 million tonight a new record. The Times wants an interview. Goldman reached out about a potential partnership that could triple our market value by Q3.

This is what winning feels like.

Charlie sits beside me, quiet as she has been for most of the ride home. I glance over, noting the way she's staring out the window, her profile elegant in the dim light. She looked good tonight. She always does. That's one of the things I got right when I married her she photographs well, says the right things at the right times, knows how to work a room without stealing focus. The perfect CEO's wife.

"You were great tonight," I tell her, because it's true and because it costs me nothing to acknowledge it. "Margaret Ashford couldn't stop talking about you."

"Mmm." Charlie doesn't look at me, just nods slightly. Probably tired. These events drain her too much socializing, too many people. She's never been as comfortable in the spotlight as I am.

I turn back to my phone, scrolling through the photos already posted on social media. There's a particularly good shot of me at the podium, mid-speech, looking commanding and pa-ssionate. I forward it to my a-ssistant with instructions to use it for the next press release. Brand management never sleeps.

A text from Vivian pops up: Tonight was incredible. You were incredible.

I smile, typing back quickly: Couldn't have done it without you. See you Monday.

She sends back a heart emoji. I delete the message thread out of habit, then pocket my phone. Vivian gets it. Gets me. She understands the pressure I'm under, the weight of running a billion-dollar company while maintaining a public image that's beyond reproach. Charlie used to understand, back when we first started dating. Back when she looked at me like I hung the moon instead of like I'm just another obligation on her to-do list.

The thing about marriage is that people change. They get comfortable. Complacent. Charlie stopped trying somewhere along the way stopped putting in the effort to keep things interesting between us. I can't remember the last time she initiated se-x, the last time she seemed genuinely excited to see me at the end of the day. She's always tired, always distracted, always just going through the motions.

I need more than that. Deserve more than that.

The car pulls up to our building, and I step out first, offering my hand to Charlie. She takes it with a small smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes, but the doorman is watching, so she plays her part. We ride the elevator in silence, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor as we head into the penthouse.

"I'm exhausted," she says, heading straight for the bedroom. "I'm going to bed."

"I'll be there in a bit. Just need to check on a few things." I watch her disappear down the hallway, then head to my office. The champagne gla-sses are still on my desk where Vivian and I left them. I pick them up, rinsing them in the small bar sink before anyone sees them in the morning. Not that Charlie would notice. She never comes in here anymore.

My phone buzzes with another round of congratulatory texts. Robert Chen from the board. David Martinez from the Times. Even my father sent a rare message: Well done, son. You're finally living up to the family name.

Finally. As if everything I've accomplished up until now didn't count. But that's the thing about coming from old money you're always competing with ghosts, always trying to prove you're more than just a trust fund kid who got lucky. I built Blackwood Enterprises from a mid-level investment firm into one of the most respected names in the industry. Did that through seventy-hour work weeks, strategic partnerships, and an absolute refusal to accept second place.

You don't get to the top by playing nice. You get there by being smarter, faster, more ruthless than everyone else. And once you're there? You do whatever it takes to stay there.

I pour myself a scotch Macallan 25, because I can and sink into my leather chair. The city sprawls beneath me, millions of lights representing millions of people who will never achieve a fraction of what I have. It's not arrogance if it's true. I worked my a-ss off for this view, this life, this empire.

And yeah, maybe I've made some choices that aren't exactly by the book. Maybe Vivian is a complication I should have avoided. But God, she makes me feel alive in a way I haven't felt in years. When I'm with her, I'm not just Derrick Blackwood, CEO and philanthropist. I'm just a man who's wanted. Desired. Appreciated for more than his bank account and his last name.

Charlie doesn't look at me like that anymore. he-ll, she barely looks at me at all.

I drain the scotch and pour another. The thing is, I love my wife. I do. She's loyal, dependable, exactly what I needed when I was building the foundation and needed someone steady by my side. But love isn't always enough. Sometimes you need pa-ssion. Heat. Someone who challenges you instead of just accommodating you.

My phone buzzes again. This time it's a message from my lawyer, confirming our meeting on Tuesday to discuss the merger. Another notification pops up an alert that our stock price jumped two points after tonight's coverage. Everything is falling into place exactly as I planned.

That's the secret they don't tell you about success: once you have it, you have to protect it. Every single day is a battle to maintain your position, to keep the vultures at bay, to ensure that no one can touch what you've built. You can't afford weakness. Can't afford distractions. Can't afford to let anyone see the cracks.

I finish my second scotch and head toward the bedroom. Charlie's already asleep, or pretending to be, curled up on her side of the bed with her back to me. The distance between us feels wider than the actual six inches of mattress. When did that happen? When did we become two people who share a space instead of a life?

Doesn't matter. Tomorrow I have back-to-back meetings starting at seven. The Tokyo deal needs my attention. The board wants an update on Q1 projections. Real estate is waiting for my approval on the new office expansion. I've got a lunch with Senator Crane about the infrastructure bill and drinks with the Goldman team at six.

This is what I signed up for. This is what I wanted. A life where every minute counts, where every decision has weight, where I matter on a scale most people can't even comprehend.

I slide into bed carefully, not wanting to wake Charlie. She murmurs something in her sleep but doesn't move. For a moment, I study her face in the darkness the soft curve of her cheek, the way her hair spills across the pillow. She's beautiful. I remember that suddenly, like I'm seeing her for the first time in months.

Maybe I should plan something. A weekend away. Paris, maybe, or the Amalfi Coast. Something romantic to remind us both why we fell in love in the first place. Once this merger is finalized and things settle down at work, I'll have more time. We can reconnect. Get back to where we used to be.

The thought is comforting as I close my eyes. Everything is manageable. Everything is under control. Charlie's not going anywhere she loves this life too much, loves what being Mrs. Blackwood gives her. The penthouse, the cars, the status. Women like her don't walk away from security like that.

And Vivian? That's just scratching an itch. A temporary thing that helps me deal with the stress. It doesn't mean anything. Doesn't threaten what I have with Charlie. It's just... separate. Compartmentalized. The way everything in my life needs to be to function efficiently.

My phone buzzes one more time on the nightstand. I ignore it, letting sleep pull me under. Tomorrow will bring new challenges, new opportunities, new wins to add to the scoreboard. That's how I measure my life in victories, in acquisitions, in the steady accumulation of power and influence.

I've built something untouchable. Something permanent. A legacy that will outlast me, that will cement the Blackwood name for generations. My father wanted me to live up to the family reputation? I'm going to surpa-ss it. I'm going to be the Blackwood everyone remembers.

Charlie shifts in her sleep, and I automatically move closer, my hand finding her waist out of habit. She's warm, familiar, mine. Whatever distance has grown between us is temporary. Fixable. Just another problem to solve once I have the bandwidth to address it.

But right now, in this moment, everything is exactly where it should be.

The gala was a triumph. The company is thriving. My reputation is bulletproof. I have a beautiful wife, a successful career, respect from everyone who matters. This is what I worked for. What I sacrificed for. What I earned through sheer force of will and refusal to accept anything less than extraordinary.

I fall asleep thinking about tomorrow's meetings, about the Tokyo deal, about the hundred different ways I'm going to continue building my empire. Sleep comes easily because my conscience is clear. I've done what I needed to do to get here. Made the hard choices. Taken what I deserved.

And tomorrow, I'll do it all over again. Because that's what winners do. They don't apologize. Don't second-guess. They just keep moving forward, accumulating victories, leaving everyone else behind.

Charlie will understand eventually. She always does. She's loyal like that. Dependable. Constant.

She's not going anywhere.