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I became obsessed in that quiet, controlled way wives do when they don’t want to blow everything up just yet. Constantly checking text messages and emails. Analysing every interaction. Lying awake at night replaying moments over and over until they either made sense or I’d convinced myself that I needed to be locked up.

There were messages eventually. Enough to confirm it without either of them having to say it out loud. And of course I thought about confronting them. I even wrote notes on how to word it all. But then what? I wondered. Rupert would apologise. Or worse – he wouldn’t. And everything we’d built would fracture overnight. My life, my home, my channel.

I couldn’t afford to lose any of those things. Not when everything was finally . . . working.

So instead, I smiled. I played along. Waiting. Hoping they’d blow up without me stepping in. I even played with that, too. I loved dropping in comments to Penelope about our wild sex life, exaggerating strange kinks that had no basis in our reality (thanks, internet), pretending Rupert was a deviant sex fiend, just to see her uncomfortable reaction. And, I suppose, to subtly remind her where she stood.

Petty maybe. But it was the best I could aim for. And the reality was far less impressive. Rupert hadn’t initiated sex in months. And when he eventually gave in to me, it was quick and predictable. More like a box being ticked than any sort of sharing of intimacy.

I sighed as Penelope left the house, her voice still echoing in the hallway, and glanced around the kitchen. Pristine and perfect, exactly how people expected it to be.

Rupert was still lounging on a bar stool.

‘Would you like a scone?’ I asked, nodding towards the glass dome stacked full of the delicious scones I’d baked yesterday for a reel.

‘Better be quick, or they’ll be scone, eh?’ Rupert said, glancing up from his monthly copy of Men’s Health magazine with a tight smirk.

I didn’t laugh. I had heard that joke so many times, and there was no need to perform. Penelope was gone. And their conversation, their hands brushing, was already replaying on a loop in my brain.

‘Is that a yes, or a no, darling?’ I hovered over the scones.

He shook his head. ‘No, I think I’m all right.’

I turned and walked through the house, heels clicking against the tiles, the space stretching out around me, too big, really, for the two of us. Five bedrooms, two living areas, a kitchen, a utility room, an office, a gym – you name it. Everything you’d ever want.

Everything I’d ever worked for.

When I was young, I’d never imagined having a life like this. Glasgow felt a world away now. I was just a quiet, shy girl who always tried desperately hard to blend in, to be liked, to be forgettable. And now I was . . . this. An influencer, a wife, a bloody brand. Someone people recognised, someone people watched, yet still, even after all this time, I felt like I was pretending.

Upstairs, I brushed through my extensions with a Molly-Mae brush she’d gifted me for a promotion, and my thoughts, yet again, turned to Rupert and Pen. I replayed that stupid fleeting touch of their hands. It had been nothing, barely anything. But it had turned my stomach.

I stared at my reflection for a moment and sighed.

Did they love each other? Or was it just sex? The thought landed heavily on my chest. What would happen if he actually left me? The question came before I could stop it, and for a moment, everything else fell away. It wasn’t about the house, the channel, or my brand. It was him. Us. My throat tightened.

Then, almost immediately, my brain whizzed to wondering what would happen to my brand, my house, my channel. The practical panic was creeping in, like it did most days now. Because I didn’t have an ordinary marriage, did I? My marriage was everything, it defined me. And maybe that’s part of the reason I’d tried to play the not-too-fussed card. As long as he was discreet, as long as it didn’t come out publicly, I could . . . manage the situation.

I could only imagine what people would say. The perfect wife can’t even keep her husband’s dick in her own vagina! My stomach twisted sharply, like my entire body rejected the thought. Because, truthfully, I adored my husband. I adored our life. And watching Rupert and Pen together wasn’t just upsetting, it was fucking humiliating. Like something was being slowly peeled away from me, day after day, and I had no idea how to stop it.

In my wardrobe, I pulled out my best lingerie. Black lace stockings, suspenders, the whole shebang. The kind that used to work without even trying. I undressed slowly, watching my reflection in the mirror. I knew I looked good. That had never been the issue. I was tall and slim, and my figure was in the best shape it had been in years. But still, I adjusted the straps, checking angles I’d previously never worried about.

‘Rupert!’ I called loudly. ‘I need you,’ I added, forcing brightness into my voice.

I heard a grumble in response from downstairs. Then the drag of his feet towards the stairs. I quickly moved to the bedroom, positioning myself casually at the dresser, my heart thudding hard against my chest. As his footsteps came closer, something in my chest lifted. Maybe this was what we needed.

‘Jesus, Harriette!’ Rupert said, stopping short in the doorway.

At least he’s noticed me, I thought. ‘Sorry to disturb you, darling,’ I said lightly, stepping closer. ‘I was just wondering if you knew where my gorgeous Tiffany earrings are – the ones you got me?’

He blinked, looking completely thrown, then recovered just as quickly. ‘Oh, right! Yes. Now, let me think for a momento.’ He popped one hip to the side in an exaggeration of thought. ‘I’m sure I put them in the safe.’ He waved a finger and headed into his office across the hallway.

I followed him through, a little unsettled that my husband hadn’t torn off what little clothing I had on and fucked me senseless in an instant. He hadn’t even looked at me properly.

Rupert was keying in the safe’s combination, and as it sprang open, a smile appeared on his face. ‘Ah, yes! Here they are! Right where I suspected!’ He stood up and handed me the earrings, his smile slightly panicked. ‘You’d better get some clothes on, darling. It’s winter – you’ll catch your death!’

I felt my shoulders drop in defeat.

‘Rupey,’ I tried, softer this time. ‘I was hoping maybe we could have a little . . . adult time together before we head out, actually . . .’ I reached for him, my fingers tugging his belt.