Chapter 2 - THE MASK OF THE PERFECT WIFE
The air in my closet smelled of expensive leather and lavender perfume,
a scent that usually brought me a sense of peace.
But tonight,
it felt like a gilded tomb.
I stared at the black Saint Laurent dress hanging against the cedar wall,
its fabric heavy and dark.
It was the armor Grant had requested,
the uniform of the loyal,
silent wife.
I reached out and touched the silk,
my fingers tracing the sharp,
tailored lines.
He wanted a show,
he wanted the world to see a united front.
I would give him exactly what he wanted,
but not for the reasons he believed.
My mind kept drifting back to the photograph,
to Victoria's radiant,
victorious smile.
She had sat at my dining table,
she had drank my wine,
and she had listened to me talk about my daughter's dreams of attending Yale.
All the while,
she was planning to build her future on the ruins of mine.
And Grant,
my husband of nearly two decades,
had handed her the bricks.
The sound of the garage door opening echoed through the quiet house,
a heavy,
mechanical rumble.
My chest tightened,
but I forced my breathing to slow down,
to become rhythmic and calm.
I heard his footsteps on the hardwood stairs,
confident,
measured,
the steps of a man who believed he owned the world.
"Evelyn?"
he called out,
his voice carrying that easy,
practiced charm.
I stepped out of the closet,
smoothing the front of my dress,
a perfect smile already plastered on my face.
"In here,
Grant."
He walked into the bedroom,
loosening his silk tie,
his eyes scanning me from head to toe.
"You look spectacular,"
he said,
approaching me with open arms.
"The Saint Laurent never fails."
I let him wrap his arms around my waist,
letting his expensive cologne fill my senses,
though it made my stomach turn.
I did not pull away,
I did not stiffen,
I simply leaned into his embrace like the foolish woman he thought I was.
"I wanted to make sure I did you proud tonight,"
I whispered against his shoulder,
my voice steady and sweet.
"It's a big night for the firm,
isn't it?"
He kissed the top of my head,
a dismissive,
paternal gesture.
"The biggest,"
he murmured,
"if we secure the Vance partnership,
we are set for life."
I smiled into his suit jacket,
knowing that the Vance partnership was already dead,
he just didn't know it yet.
As he walked into the bathroom to shower,
I picked up his phone from the nightstand.
It was locked,
but I had watched him enter his passcode a thousand times.
My fingers flew across the screen,
opening his messages,
searching for her name.
There she was,
saved under a generic business contact,
"V.
Vance."
The last message from her was sent just an hour ago.
"Can't wait to see your wife's face when she realizes she's lost."
I took a deep breath,
not allowing a single tear to fall.
I copied the entire chat history,
every photo,
every transaction detail,
and sent it to a secure,
private email address I had created that afternoon.
Then,
I deleted the sent message from his phone,
May you like
placed it back on the nightstand,
and waited for my husband to finish dressing.
