He Slept With His Assistant While I Watched From Upstairs

The courier arrived precisely at 7:00 PM, his knock echoing through the marble foyer of our mansion. I signed for the package with a practiced smile, the kind I'd perfected over five years of being Nathan's trophy wife. Small, unassuming, and completely forgettable—exactly as he liked me to be.

"Thank you," I said, my voice soft and melodic. "Happy anniversary."

The courier looked confused for a moment, then nodded politely before leaving. I carried the package to our living room, where champagne chilled in an ice bucket—a bottle of Dom P rignon that Nathan had left for our fifth wedding anniversary. A gesture that would have seemed romantic to anyone who didn't know better.

The package was simple—a plain brown box with no return address. Inside lay a sleek tablet, its screen displaying a single icon: a livestream link.

My fingers hovered over it for a moment. Something about its timing made my pulse quicken beneath my carefully composed exterior.

"Five years," I whispered to myself, "and this is what you send me."

I tapped the icon.

The screen flickered to life, revealing a familiar conference hall. The annual meeting of TechFusion, Nathan's company. Correction—the company I had built for him, piece by piece, while he took all the credit.

The camera panned across rows of employees in formal attire. Two hundred people, all dressed in their finest, applauding as Nathan took the stage. He looked impeccable in his tailored suit, his smile confident as he adjusted the microphone.

"Welcome to TechFusion's annual meeting," he began, his voice booming through the tablet's speakers. "Today marks not just another successful year for our company, but also my fifth wedding anniversary."

I reached for the champagne, pouring myself a glass. The bubbles rose to the surface, tiny golden spheres bursting in slow motion.

"I think it's fitting," Nathan continued, "that on this day, we celebrate not just business success, but personal success. The two are inextricably linked."

He paused, his eyes scanning the crowd with that predatory gleam I'd come to recognize. "You all know my wife, Emma."

The camera cut to a photo of me on the big screen—one from our wedding day. I was smiling, radiant in my designer gown, looking up at Nathan with adoration.

"My wife Emma," Nathan repeated, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone, "is just an ignorant trophy. I keep her like a pet."

The room erupted in laughter.

I took a sip of champagne, the bubbles sharp on my tongue.

"Now, now," Nathan said, raising his hands in mock admonishment as the laughter continued. "I'm not saying there's anything wrong with that. In fact, I'm proud of it. Successful men need beautiful women to complement their power."

The crowd's applause grew louder as a woman stood from the front row. Monica. His assistant. She was stunning in a red dress that clung to every curve, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders.

"Come here, sweetheart," Nathan called out, gesturing her to the stage.

She