The Rebirth of the Discarded Trophy Wife

The Hermès bag felt heavier than usual as I stood outside Kade's corner office, my manicured fingers wrapped around the brass door handle. Through the frosted glass, I could make out two silhouettes pressed together in what looked like an intimate embrace.

I pushed the door open.

There she was—Abagail, the twenty-two-year-old marketing intern with her perfectly straightened blonde hair and that innocent smile she wore during board meetings. Except right now, she was straddling my fiancé's lap in his executive chair, her pencil skirt hiked up around her thighs, their mouths locked together like they were drowning and each other was oxygen.

The office smelled like expensive cologne mixed with her vanilla perfume. Taylor Swift's voice drifted from the Bose speakers mounted on the wall, singing something dark and haunting about karma.

I glanced down at my Apple Watch. Heart rate: 65 beats per minute. Steady as a metronome.

Interesting.

In my previous life—the one that ended with me sobbing in this very office while Kade called me a "hysterical bitch"—my heart would have been hammering at 140 by now. I would have been screaming, throwing his crystal paperweights, making a scene that would have the entire floor talking for weeks.

But that version of Sloane died three months ago in a car accident that somehow sent me back to this moment. This time, I felt nothing but a strange, crystalline clarity.

Kade's hands were tangled in Abagail's hair when he finally sensed my presence. He jerked his head up, his blue eyes wide with the kind of panic I'd never seen before. His perfectly styled dark hair was mussed, his tie askew.

"Sloane—" he started, roughly pushing Abagail off his lap. She stumbled slightly, her cheeks flushed pink, lipstick smeared.

I reached into my bag and pulled out a sleek gold card, holding it between two fingers like a business card. The weight of it was satisfying—heavy stock, embossed lettering.

"The Ritz-Carlton," I said, my voice steady and almost warm. "Presidential suite. I took the liberty of booking it for the night."

Kade's mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air. Abagail was frantically smoothing down her skirt, her face cycling through embarrassment, confusion, and something that might have been disappointment.

"What the hell are you—" Kade began, his voice taking on that familiar edge of condescension I knew so well.

"Playing it smart," I interrupted, taking a step closer. My Louboutin heels clicked against the marble floor with each measured step. "Abagail hasn't been converted to full-time yet, has she? An affair with an intern could be... problematic for the IPO. Bad optics."

I held out the key card to him, noting how his hand trembled slightly when he didn't immediately take it.

"The penthouse has floor-to-ceiling windows," I continued conversationally. "Overlooks the city. I thought you'd appreciate the view while you... discuss her performance review."

Abagail made a small sound—half gasp, half whimper. Her mascara had smudged slightly under her left eye, giving her