Early on the morning of our tenth wedding anniversary, a giant bouquet of ninety-nine red roses from my husband arrived at our company’s front desk. My coworkers gathered around, squealing with envy, gushing about how we were still as madly in love as newlyweds even after a decade of marriage. But as I was getting a vase to arrange the flowers, I overheard the cleaning ladies gossiping in the breakroom. "Elena is so clueless. Ethan literally brought his side piece into the company three years ago, and she still has no idea." "Exactly. Every anniversary, he gets his wife a generic bouquet of roses, but he buys his little mistress designer bags, sports cars, and luxury apartments. It’s pretty obvious who he actually loves, right?" My heart violently seized. A year ago, Ethan said he wanted to buy a luxury condo downtown, claiming it would be convenient for hosting high-end clients. I bought it. Last month, he wanted to upgrade his car to a Porsche, saying it would make him look more professional when meeting investors. I put down the deposit. And just last week, he asked me to use my VIP account at Hermès to buy a bunch of lifestyle accessories, claiming he needed to gift a VIP client a rare handbag. Suddenly, my phone buzzed in my hand. "Hi, is this Mrs. Elena Vance? The limited-edition Hermès Birkin you ordered has arrived at our boutique." I took a deep breath, turned on my heel, and headed straight to the luxury store. Since these things were never meant for "clients" in the first place, it was time for me to take them all back.
"Hey babe, did that Hermès bag you helped me order finally arrive?" I had just walked into the private VIP lounge and picked up the limited-edition orange Birkin—which required over a hundred thousand dollars in pre-spending—when Ethan’s call came through. I looked up and caught the sales associate’s smile freezing on her face. So, my husband had his own eyes and ears inside this store. "Yeah, I just got it," I replied, my voice sounding flat even to my own ears. Ethan’s voice was instantly pumped with excitement. "Awesome! I'll swing by and grab it after work. I actually have a dinner meeting with a major client tonight to lock down that new project." I slowly ran my fingers over the supple, pebbled leather of the bag. It was the classic Hermès orange. Bright, flashy, and attention-grabbing. I had always hated loud colors like this. Most of Ethan’s high-profile business clients were around my age; none of them would realistically carry a bag in this shade. That was why, when I placed the order last week, I had specifically requested a classy, understated Etoupe Gray. "Which client are you gifting this to? I can just have my assistant deliver it directly to their office," I said casually. Silence stretched over the line for two agonizing seconds. "Babe, come on, it’s our anniversary today. Why would I want to stress you out with work errands?" Ethan chuckled nervously. "Plus, you haven't been involved in this specific project. You wouldn't be able to chat with them about the details if they ask." He was dodging the question, talking in circles. Since last year, Ethan had practically moved into the gym. He was constantly flexing his new abs in the mirror and spending thirty minutes styling his hair every single morning before leaving for "work." My best friend had joked once, *“Is your husband going through a midlife crisis, or is he having an affair?”* I had laughed it off back then. Ethan and I had been together for ten years, surviving the transition from college sweethearts to business partners. I was the one who stood by him when he had absolutely nothing. I was the one who ignored my wealthy family's warnings and used my own inheritance and connections to fund his startup. I watched him grow from a clueless boy into a polished CEO. We survived the worst of times together. Why couldn't we share the best of times? My eyes burned with unshed tears. "Fine. Come pick it up now then," I said, hanging up before he could respond. I closed my eyes. Memories of us huddling together in our cramped, freezing studio apartment years ago flashed across my mind. But they were instantly shattered by the image of him today, meticulously styling his hair in front of the vanity. As it turned out, the pain of a breaking heart was far worse than physical labor. My hands trembled as I unlocked my phone and texted the real estate broker who had helped us buy the downtown condo last year. "I need you to sell the downtown condo immediately. List it for one million dollars cash today." The broker replied almost instantly. "Elena! Are you serious?! That is way below market value! You paid nearly double that amount last year!" My heart felt completely numb. "Just sell it. Today." Right after I locked my phone, Ethan rushed into the VIP lounge. "Babe! What made you decide to come pick up the bag yourself today?" I glanced at my watch. It had taken him less than twenty minutes to get here. Was he really that terrified of me uncovering his little secret? "The store manager called me and said my VIP order was ready, so I happened to be in the area," I said smoothly. Ethan shot a sharp, warning glare at the sales associate, Sarah. But when he turned back to me, his face softened into his usual warm, loving expression. I smiled faintly, pretending not to notice their little exchange. "By the way, Ethan, I distinctly remember ordering the Etoupe Gray last week. Why did Sarah hand me an orange one?"
Ethan’s face went stiff, and he fell silent. I tapped my fingers on the luxury bag and turned my gaze to Sarah. "This isn't the bag I ordered. You've completely wasted my time and my husband’s." I paused, my voice cold. "Should I file a formal complaint with corporate?" Sarah panicked, shooting a desperate, pleading look at Ethan. But Ethan remained quiet, sweat practically beads on his forehead. "No, ma'am, it wasn't my mistake. Your husband was the one who—" Sarah started to stammer. Ethan quickly cut her off. "Babe, the bag is actually for the client’s daughter," he lied smoothly, flashing a reassuring smile. "I was worried a young girl wouldn't like the boring gray you chose, so I called Sarah back and had her switch it to the orange one." *A young girl?* I caught my reflection in the polished glass storefront. I still looked virtually the same as I did ten years ago—stylish, sharp, and well-kept. But in his eyes, I was already the "old wife." Sensing the tension, Sarah quickly pulled a silk scarf from the display cabinet and placed it gently near my hand. "I am so sorry, Mrs. Vance. This was miscommunication on our part for not notifying you beforehand. Please accept our sincerest apologies." Ethan reached over, rubbing his hand through my hair, and slid close to me on the plush velvet sofa. To avoid office gossip, he had always refused to show any form of physical affection toward me at the office. I felt a wave of discomfort and subtly shifted away from his touch. He frowned slightly, then gave Sarah a quick wink. "Sarah, go grab some of your latest arrivals. Let my wife pick out whatever she wants." Watching him play the doting, guilty husband made me feel physically sick. I rarely visited this boutique myself. Usually, whenever he claimed a "client" needed a gift, I would just call and put it on my card. But seeing how comfortable and familiar he was with Sarah, it was obvious he had been spending a lot of time—and my money—in this store. "Babe, I know you're upset about the color mix-up," Ethan cooed, trying to wrap his arm around my waist. "Tell you what, whatever you want in the store today, it's on me. Happy anniversary." Sarah brought out a dozen gorgeous bags, laying them out in front of me. Every color, every style. But I felt absolutely nothing. I waved my hand dismissively. "Forget it. I have a meeting with some partners this afternoon anyway." I looked at him. "Didn't you say you had to deliver that gift to your client? You should get going." Right on cue, Ethan’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He quickly planted a soft kiss on my forehead. "Don't be mad at me, okay? I promise to make it up to you tonight." I watched him stand up, check his phone, and practically skip out of the boutique. His steps were so light, so full of anticipation. I let out a bitter, self-deprecating laugh. You really can't hide the energy of someone who is freshly in love. I had been so blind for so long, busy running the actual business while he was out playing boyfriend. The moment he disappeared from view, I stood up and walked over to Sarah. "I want to see the full transaction history under his authorized user card." Sarah looked me up and down, a hint of hesitation in her eyes. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Vance, but that is private client information. We aren't authorized to share transaction details without the primary user's consent." There was a subtle, condescending smirk on her face, as if she assumed I was just a wealthy trophy wife throwing a tantrum. "Even if you complain to corporate, our policy stands," she added. I reached into my Chanel wallet, pulled out my Centurion Black Card, and slammed it onto the glass counter. Sarah’s eyes went wide, and her smug attitude instantly evaporated. "The card he uses? It’s just an authorized user card linked directly to my primary account," I said, my voice deadpan. "Now, do I have the right to see where my money is going?" Sarah bowed her head quickly, taking the card with trembling hands. "Of course, ma'am. I will pull up the records immediately." A second later, the computer screen populated with page after page of transaction history. In the past month alone, there was over eighty thousand dollars of spending on high-end jewelry, women's shoes, and ready-to-wear pieces. I scanned the customer profile linked to those purchases. The phone number listed wasn't Ethan’s. I memorized the number instantly. "Print the entire history out for me. Now." Holding the thick stack of printed receipts, I walked out of the store into the crisp afternoon air. I pulled out my phone and texted my personal assistant, Amy. "Find out who owns this phone number immediately. Also, run a forensic audit on Ethan’s personal bank accounts and our corporate expense reports for the last three years." Less than two minutes later, Amy replied. "Elena, I found it." "The phone number is registered to Chloe Miller. Our front desk receptionist."
When I walked back into our corporate headquarters, I immediately spotted a group of girls crowded around the reception desk. That bright, limited-edition orange Hermès Birkin was being passed around like a trophy. "Oh my god, Chloe! This bag is absolutely stunning! Isn't this like, virtually impossible to get?" one of the girls squealed in awe. I walked over, casually reached into the circle, and snatched the bag right out of their hands. I examined it for a few seconds. Yep. It was the exact bag I had just authorized at the boutique. "It is incredibly hard to get," I said, looking up with a cold smile. "I've been on the waitlist for a month and couldn't even get my hands on one." Chloe’s face instantly twisted in annoyance. She snatched the bag back from my hands, clutching it to her chest. "Well, my boyfriend bought it for me. Doesn't Elena's husband buy her things like this?" Chloe smirked, her voice dripping with malice. "Oh, wait. I guess when a man has to go home to a wrinkly, exhausted wife every day, he probably doesn't feel like buying her luxury gifts anyway." The other girls exchanged knowing, amused glances, clearly enjoying the drama. "Yeah, did Elena only get a cheap bouquet of roses for her anniversary today?" one whispered. "My boyfriend says roses are so basic. They're just for show. If a man really loves you, he buys you the best," Chloe bragged, tossing her curled hair. I looked at the smug, mocking faces of the girls around her. It clicked. The entire office knew Ethan was sleeping with the receptionist. I was the only fool kept in the dark, working myself to the bone to fund their lifestyle. The pain in my chest was so suffocating I could barely breathe. Since we got married, Ethan had stopped buying me real gifts. He always used the same excuse: *“Babe, we’ve been together forever. My money is your money. There’s no point in wasting cash on flashy gifts.”* Yet, every single anniversary, he’d order a generic bouquet of roses. He used to tell me roses represented "eternal devotion." But the truth was, I hated roses. I had sent him countless hints on Pinterest of the wildflowers and orchids I actually liked. But the next year, it would be the same lazy roses. I had always excused it, thinking he was just a typical, clueless guy who didn't understand aesthetics. But he wasn't clueless at all. He knew exactly how to pick out the perfect, vibrant orange bag for his twenty-something mistress. He knew how to buy her a BMW and rent her a luxury condo. He didn't lack effort. He just didn't want to waste it on me. Seeing that I remained silent, Chloe grew even bolder, puffing her chest out. "Oh dear, is Elena going to cry?" she mocked. "It’s just a bag. If you want one so bad, I have plenty of older designer bags in my closet. I can toss you one of my hand-me-downs if you ask nicely!" Over the past two years, Chloe had been showing up to work every day draped in different designer brands. I had actually wondered once how a receptionist making $15 an hour could afford a wardrobe like that. I had naively assumed she was just a spoiled trust-fund kid working an easy job for fun. Who would have thought that her lavish lifestyle was entirely funded by my sweat and tears? Half the bags she owned were ordered through my own VIP accounts. A cold rage surged through my veins, but my face became terrifyingly calm. "No thank you," I said, my voice ice-cold. "Keep your trash to yourself." Chloe rolled her eyes and gasped dramatically, covering her mouth. "Are you jealous, Elena? But honestly, you're pushing forty. This bright orange really doesn't suit an older, washed-up woman like you anyway." I let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "You're right. This color doesn't suit me." "It suits a pathetic, home-wrecking gold digger perfectly." Chloe’s face flushed red with anger, her eyes instantly welling with fake tears. "What did you just call me?! Elena, just because your husband doesn't love you anymore doesn't give you the right to abuse your employees!" The other girls quickly chimed in to defend her. "Yeah, Elena, just because you have marriage problems doesn't mean you can bully Chloe!" "No wonder Ethan always looks so exhausted and miserable around the office. Having a toxic boss for a wife must be a nightmare." They were already treating Chloe like she was the next CEO’s wife. I stared at Chloe with absolute detestation. "You know exactly what you are." I didn't waste another second arguing with them. I turned around and walked straight back to my office. "Ugh, whatever! She only got her position because of Ethan anyway. Without him, she’s absolutely nothing!" "I know, right? Don't let her get to you, Chloe. You're young, beautiful, and actually capable. Soon enough, you'll..." Their loud, petty whispers echoed down the hallway. *I got my position because of Ethan?* A dark, mocking smile spread across my face. I pulled out my phone and messaged my assistant. "Amy, cancel the Friday happy hour early dismissal for everyone involved in that conversation at the front desk."
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