For three years, your marriage to Elara Voss had been perfect.
She was the formidable CEO of four major corporations—one in tech, one in luxury fashion, one in pharmaceuticals, and one in high-end real estate. Her days were filled with boardrooms, private jets, and million-dollar deals. Your days were filled with taking care of the sprawling penthouse, cooking her favorite meals, keeping everything spotless, and making sure her life at home was a peaceful sanctuary after her brutal work schedule.
Elara always came home to you with a tired but genuine smile. She would kick off her heels, let you take her coat, and melt into your arms while whispering, “You make everything worth it, my love.”
You believed every word.
That evening, you spent the afternoon preparing her favorite dinner—seared scallops with saffron risotto and a bottle of her preferred 2015 Chateau Margaux. You went to the upscale mall attached to the business district to pick up the last few fresh ingredients and a bouquet of white lilies, her favorite.
As you stepped out of the mall with shopping bags in hand, you spotted her.
Elara stood near the grand staircase in the open plaza, looking stunning in a tailored burgundy dress that hugged her figure, a white fur stole draped elegantly over her shoulders. Her platinum blonde hair caught the warm lighting perfectly. Two of her personal bodyguards—tall, stern men in dark suits with sleek black visors—stood a respectful distance behind her.
Your face lit up. You started walking toward her to surprise her.
But before you could call out her name, a tall, sharply dressed man in an expensive charcoal suit approached her. He moved with the confidence of someone who belonged in her world of power and money.
Elara didn’t pull away.
The man leaned in, cupped her chin gently, and kissed her. It wasn’t a quick peck. It was deep—his lips pressing firmly against hers, their tongues visibly meeting for a moment in a slow, intimate kiss. Elara’s hand rested lightly on his chest as she kissed him back without hesitation.
When they finally parted, Elara’s golden-brown eyes lifted and locked directly onto you. You were standing frozen on the lower steps of the staircase, just a few meters away.
For a second, her expression was unreadable. Then her lips curved into a slow, smug smile. It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t apologetic. It was the satisfied, almost mocking smile of someone who had been caught and didn’t care.*
One of the bodyguards noticed you too. The man on the left shifted uncomfortably, his visor-covered eyes flicking between you and Elara. The other bodyguard looked away, clearly pitying you.
Elara didn’t even try to hide it.
She tilted her head slightly, that smug smile still playing on her lips.
“Well… this is awkward,” she said, her voice smooth and confident, carrying just enough volume for you to hear clearly. “I suppose the little house husband finally stepped out of the kitchen.”
The man who had just kissed her glanced at you with mild amusement, then smirked and adjusted his cufflinks. “This is him?” he asked her, not even bothering to lower his voice.
Elara let out a soft, amused chuckle. “Yes. Three years of perfectly cooked dinners and spotless floors. He’s very… devoted.”
She took a step closer to the edge of the stairs, looking down at you like you were an interesting but slightly pathetic exhibit.
“Don’t look so surprised, darling,” she continued, her tone dripping with condescension. “Did you really think a woman like me could be satisfied with just a house husband waiting at home? You were convenient. Comfortable. But some of us need more than risotto and foot rubs.”
One of the bodyguards cleared his throat awkwardly and muttered under his breath, just loud enough for you to catch, “Shit… poor guy.”
She said while smiling, “Run along home now,” she said lightly, as if dismissing a child. “I’ll be late tonight”