Beg On Your Knees: Erasing My CEO Husband

I stared at the glowing screen of my phone, my thumb hovering over the red button. "Hey Julian," I said to the voicemail beep, forcing my voice to remain soft and understanding. "I know you're swamped in New York right now. The merger must be brutal tonight. Don't worry about calling me back. Get some sleep. I love you."

I ended the call. My husband, Julian Vance, worked entirely too hard. He needed rest, not a needy wife demanding his attention at midnight.

I slid the iPad across our plush duvet. His shared calendar flashed on the screen: *NY - Midnight strategy session.* Suddenly, a notification popped up in the top right corner. Slack.

He hadn't logged out.

I tapped the icon. Because I had personally set up his firm's network last year, my admin privileges kept his backend data fully visible. I didn't even need his password. His handsome profile picture smiled back at me. Below it, a tiny green dot indicated he was currently active. Next to that dot sat a single, damning line of text: *Local Time: 6:00 AM (CET).*

Central European Time.

I stared at the three letters, my blood running cold. New York was EST.

"You're not in Manhattan, are you, Julian?" I whispered to the empty, cavernous room.

My thumb tapped furiously into his account settings. The IP address pinned him squarely in France.

A strange sound tore from my throat. It wasn't a sob. It was a laugh. It sounded hollow, scraping violently against the walls of our pristine bedroom. He was using my endless understanding as a blindfold, treating me like a fool. I grabbed my phone and immediately dialed my sister.

"Clara? It's two in the morning," Sarah mumbled groggily through the speaker.

"Julian is in Paris."

"What? No, he's in New York. You literally just told me he was exhausted."

"He lied." I pushed off the bed and marched toward the bathroom. "His Slack is logged in. The IP address says Paris."

"Maybe the app is glitching."

"Time zones don't glitch, Sarah."

"Are you sure? Maybe he's using a VPN to access a European server?"

"Why would a domestic real estate merger require a French IP?" I asked, my voice dropping to a dead, flat monotone.

"I don't know, tech stuff?"

"I'm the one who handles his tech stuff." I swiped out of Slack and opened another app. "Hold on. I'm checking our shared Uber account."

"Clara, stop," Sarah pleaded. "You're making yourself crazy."

"Got it," I said. "He just finished a ride."

"Where?"

"Charles de Gaulle Airport to the Four Seasons Hotel George V."

"Oh my god," Sarah whispered. "Are you sure?"

"The receipt is right here. 120 Euros."

I turned and walked into his massive walk-in closet.

"What are you doing now?" Sarah asked, panic rising in her voice.

"I packed his silver suitcase yesterday," I said coldly. "I'm checking something." I opened the 'Find My' app on my phone. Months ago, I had slipped an AirTag deep