Placeholder Wife Decides to Leave

The photographs hit the internet at 6:47 AM.

I was still in my silk pajamas, nursing my first cup of coffee in the marble kitchen of our penthouse, when my phone erupted into a symphony of urgent ringtones. The PR team's emergency hotline. The family lawyer. Vincent's personal assistant. Even the housekeeper was calling—probably fielding calls from reporters already camping outside our building.

My hands didn't shake as I swiped to answer the first call. They never did anymore.

"Mrs. Müller, we have a situation," came the clipped voice of Janet, our head of public relations. "Photos of Mr. Müller with Isabella Rossi surfaced an hour ago. They're... compromising."

I set down my coffee cup with deliberate care, the porcelain making the softest clink against the marble countertop. "How compromising?"

"Hand-holding. Intimate dinner at Le Bernardin. Her head on his shoulder in the back of his car."

Of course. Isabella Rossi—the Brazilian supermodel with legs that went on for days and a smile that graced magazine covers worldwide. Vincent had been 'consulting' with her about some charity gala for weeks now. I'd seen her name on his calendar, blocked out in neat two-hour increments.

"I'll handle it," I said, already moving toward my laptop. "Send me everything."

The next three hours blurred together in a familiar dance of damage control. Press releases crafted with surgical precision. Strategic leaks to friendly journalists about Vincent's 'business dinner' with the model regarding her upcoming charity work. Social media posts carefully timed to flood the news cycle with other stories. Phone calls to editors, invoking old favors and making new promises.

By 10 AM, I was dressed in my armor—a tailored navy suit that made me look competent and unshakeable, my dark hair pulled back in a sleek chignon. I'd learned long ago that looking the part was half the battle in this world of appearances.

Vincent's office building buzzed with its usual morning energy, but I could feel the undercurrent of whispered conversations and stolen glances. The elevator ride to the forty-second floor felt endless, each floor a reminder of how high I'd have to fall if this all came crashing down.

The hallway outside Vincent's corner office was eerily quiet. Too quiet. Through the frosted glass, I could make out two figures—one unmistakably Vincent's tall, broad silhouette, and another, smaller and curved in all the ways that made men forget their wives existed.

I positioned myself strategically by the elevator bank, close enough to intercept any unwanted visitors but far enough to maintain plausible deniability. My phone buzzed constantly—more calls from reporters, more messages from the PR team, more updates on the social media fallout.

"Pathetic."

The voice came from behind me, dripping with familiar disdain. Lucas Müller emerged from the executive lounge, his dark hair tousled and his expensive shirt wrinkled, looking like he'd slept in the office again. At twenty-six, Vincent's younger brother had perfected the art of looking both devastatingly handsome and completely disinterested in everything around him.

"Good