Preston: Perfect. Keep playing sympathetic.
Hot Ass: Took him to lunch like you suggested. Third glass of wine, and he started complaining about his wife being suspicious. I played dumb, asked the right questions.
Preston: And?
Hot Ass: He told me everything.
Preston: Excellent. My father will be thrilled. Once we have solid proof, Merica will resign quietly or lose everything in his divorce. About time too. He’s been a thorn in my side for too long.
My mind spins. Merica. A senior partner at Darlington Investments who clearly has something on the family, something that’s kept him protected all these years. So Preston is collecting blackmail material. No doubt evidence of an affair that would destroy Merica’s marriage and trigger his prenup. Mutually assured destruction. The bitter irony isn’t lost on me — Preston is weaponizing infidelity against someone else while doing the exact same thing. I keep scrolling, my thumb moving faster, the world narrowing to the glowing screen.
Hot Ass: And what about the other thing you asked me to deal with?
Preston: She suspects nothing. She’s too busy planning charity events and hiding from my mother. She’s not smart enough to see what’s happening.
Hot Ass: Don’t underestimate her.
Preston: Please. My wife is a decorative asset. Nothing more.
The words hit me, but not in the way they should. There’s no pain. No gut-wrenching sob. Instead, a strange, icy calm washes over me. It’s the feeling of confirmation. The final piece of a puzzle I didn’t even know I was solving. A memory flashes, unbidden: our first date. He’d told me he loved my “unspoiled, authentic nature.” He’d called me a breath of fresh air. It was all a lie. He wasn’t looking for a partner; he was looking for a project. A beautiful, unpolished stone he could cut and shape to fit his setting.
Decorative asset.
He’s right. That’s what I’ve become. But he’s also wrong. My parents named me Snow, not Doormat. And I have an MBA, just like his shark of an assistant. Or should I call her hot ass? I’m not stupid. I’m just… sedated.
Then I see the next text. It’s from a different number, a thread with a woman named Ashleigh.
Ashleigh: I miss you. Our night at The Plaza was amazing. I want to do it again.
Preston: I know. Soon, I promise. Once I handle my wife.
Ashleigh: You said that last time. Is she really going to sign the post-nup?
Preston: She’ll do what she’s told. She always does.
A post-nup. There it is. The cheap, predictable betrayal I knew was there but hadn’t bothered to look for. So that’s his plan. Lock me in tighter, strip away what little protection I have left. Make sure I get nothing if I ever wise up and leave. He’s been three steps ahead this whole time — or so he thinks.
I exit the messages and tap his email app. I spot it immediately: a receipt from The Plaza Hotel. A room for the night. A charge of two hundred dollars at the Champagne Bar. A charge for room service at 2 AM. Last Tuesday. The night he was supposedly working late, and left for work before I woke up on Wednesday morning. The total is more than my parents make in a week of selling their organic produce at the farmer’s market.
My business brain, the part of me I thought was long dead, kicks into gear. I don’t cry. I don’t throw the phone. My hands, suddenly steady, move with methodical precision. I work fast, my thumb flying across the screen. Screenshots of everything. The texts with Ashleigh. The hotel receipt. The conversation with Hot Ass. I email them to an account I’ve had since college and then delete the screenshots and emails from the sent folder.
One more thing. I pull up the contact labeled “Hot Ass” and copy the number to my own phone. I might need it.
A strange sense of freedom, sharp and exhilarating, floods my veins. I’m not devastated. I’m not heartbroken. I’m liberated. This isn’t the end of my world. It’s the beginning of a war.
I place the phone back on the nightstand, exactly as I found it, just as the shower turns off. I slide into bed, my back to his side.
Preston emerges, smelling of expensive soap, and gets into bed without a word. Soon, his breathing deepens into the soft snores I’ve listened to for six years. He’s sleeping the peaceful sleep of a man who believes he’s in complete control.
He’s wrong.
Chapter 2
Snow
Iwake before dawn, a sliver of grey light just beginning to outline the heavy silk curtains. For a moment, I’m disoriented. Then the memory of last night — Thursday’s dinner, Preston’s unlocked phone, the devastating texts — crashes down on me, not with pain, but with a jolt of pure, cold adrenaline. The texts. The screenshots. The truth.
Preston is still asleep beside me, his breathing a soft, oblivious rhythm in the quiet room. He looks almost boyish in sleep, the lines around his mouth softened. For a fleeting second, I feel a pang of something for the man I thought I married. But it’s like mourning a ghost, a person who never really existed. The man who called me a decorative asset, who promised another woman he would “handle” me, is the reality. I feel nothing for him but a profound, chilling contempt.
