His Unwanted Wife: The Hidden Tech Genius

Cassidy Webster sat at the far end of the massive mahogany dining table, her eyes locked on the antique grandfather clock against the wall.

The heavy brass pendulum swung back and forth.

Tick. Tock.

The minute hand clicked into place. It was exactly nine o'clock in the evening.

Cassidy slowly lowered her gaze to the table. In front of her sat a plate of Beef Wellington. The golden pastry had long since turned soggy, the expensive meat inside completely cold. The congealed fat pooled at the edges of the porcelain plate like a dirty secret.

She picked up her phone from the table. Her fingers felt stiff, the joints aching from the sheer tension of waiting. She dialed Cornelius's private number.

The line rang. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. Five.

Then, the mechanical, emotionless voice of the voicemail system filled the silent room.

Cassidy drew in a sharp, ragged breath. The air in her lungs felt like crushed glass. She opened her messaging app and typed out a single sentence, asking when he would be home.

Almost instantly, the screen lit up. It wasn't Cornelius. It was a reply from his executive assistant.

"Mrs. Lambert, the President is currently in a highly critical business meeting and cannot be disturbed. He will not be home for dinner."

Cassidy stared at the glowing screen. The very last, pathetic ember of hope in her chest sputtered and died, leaving behind a hollow, freezing void.

She stood up. The wooden legs of her dining chair scraped violently against the polished marble floor, the screech echoing like a scream in the empty penthouse.

Without a word, Cassidy picked up the plate of cold Beef Wellington. She walked straight into the pristine, state-of-the-art kitchen.

She didn't hesitate. She tipped the plate over the edge of the stainless steel trash can, watching the expensive ingredients slide into the garbage with a wet, heavy thud.

The silence in the apartment rushed back in, pressing against her eardrums. It was a physical weight. It was suffocating her. Her throat tightened, and she felt a desperate, primal need for oxygen.

She walked to the entryway and grabbed her plain beige trench coat, pulling it tightly over the thin, expensive silk slip dress she had worn just for him.

Cassidy pushed open the heavy front door, stepped into the private elevator, and pressed the button for the ground floor lobby.

The moment she stepped out of the building, the biting autumn wind of Manhattan whipped down Fifth Avenue, violently slicing down the collar of her coat.

She pulled the lapels tighter across her chest and started walking. She had no destination. She just put one foot in front of the other, letting the blinding neon lights and the roar of city traffic wash over her numb mind.

She walked until her feet ached. Eventually, she stopped at a street corner, right outside the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of a three-star Michelin French restaurant.

Through the pristine glass, a familiar profile caught her