Betrayed Wife's Comeback

I should have known something was wrong when the house felt too quiet. The charity gala had ended early—a rare stroke of luck, I'd thought. Now I could surprise Brooks with the good news about the additional donations I'd secured for his tech foundation. Seven years of marriage had taught me to anticipate his needs, to shape myself into the perfect wife for a rising tech mogul. I'd even worn the sapphire dress he'd selected, though it pinched at my waist and made my shoulders ache.

The penthouse elevator opened silently. I slipped off my heels, padding barefoot across the marble foyer, my stockings catching slightly on the polished surface. A trail of clothing led from the living room toward our bedroom—Brooks' tuxedo jacket crumpled on the floor, a woman's red silk dress draped over our wedding photo.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I approached our bedroom door, left slightly ajar. The sounds reached me before the sight—breathless gasps, low murmurs, the rhythmic creaking of our bed. Our bed, where I'd lain awake so many nights waiting for him to come home.

"Brooks," I whispered, pushing the door open.

There they were, illuminated in the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Brooks, his back to me, moving over a young woman whose dark hair spilled across my pillowcase. She saw me first, her eyes widening, lips parting in shock. She looked so much like me—like I had looked seven years ago when Brooks had first pursued me. Young. Hopeful. Talented.

"Emilia!" Brooks turned, not bothering to cover himself. There was no shame in his expression, only irritation at the interruption. "You're supposed to be at the gala."

The woman—girl, really—clutched the sheets to her chest. "Brooks, who is she?"

"My wife," he answered flatly. "Soon to be ex-wife."

I stood frozen, clutching my evening bag like a shield. "How long?"

Brooks sighed, reaching for his discarded shirt. "Does it matter? Emilia, this is Anastasia Berry. She's an opera singer. Quite talented."

"Six months," Anastasia whispered, unable to meet my eyes. "I'm sorry. He said you had an arrangement."

I backed away, stumbling over Brooks' abandoned shoes. The room spun around me as I fled to the guest bathroom, retching into the pristine marble sink. My reflection in the mirror was a stranger's—hollow-eyed, pale as death. I splashed cold water on my face, trying to wash away the image burned into my mind.

When I emerged, Brooks was waiting in the hallway, wearing only his pants, hair still mussed from another woman's fingers.

"This doesn't have to be messy," he said, as if discussing a minor inconvenience. "I'll have papers ready in the morning. You'll sign over your shares in the company, and I'll ensure you're comfortable."

"My shares?" My voice sounded distant, belonging to someone else. "I helped build that company. I gave up my art for you."

"Let's be realistic, Emilia. Your name isn't on anything important. Your mother's treatment, however..." He let the threat hang in