I believed in the dream, too.
Until that night, at the company’s celebration gala. Magnus lost control in public, throwing punches to defend his assistant from a pushy client. He made a scene. Got arrested.
I bailed him out, using the family name to keep things quiet.
Outside the holding cell, I overheard him laughing with a friend, still half–drunk and unaware I was there.
His friend joked, “If you like her that much, just keep her on the side. Evelyn’s obsessed with you. Even if it blows up, she wouldn’t dare leave.”
Magnus let out a helpless chuckle. “She’s different,” he said. “She’s not like Evelyn… not that
low. She didn’t throw herself at me.”
He continued, “She has nothing to do with me on paper. I couldn’t make her look cheap.”
So that’s what he thought of me. That I was cheap.
From eighteen to twenty–eight, ten years of my life, I had lived as his wife, his woman. But in his eyes, I had always been the desperate girl who threw herself into his bed.
A cold draft swept through the hallway outside the police station. I had been trembling before, but now I felt truly frozen.
So this was what I had become in Magnus’s world: the pitiful slut of a wife.
They always said the darling of Greyton was distant, refined and expertly masked. I hadn’t believed it before. But now, I saw the truth all too clearly.
I steadied myself, swallowed the pain and pushed open the door. The conversation inside stopped dead. Magnus and his friend turned to look at me.
Magnus calmly met my eyes and said flatly, “Sorry for the trouble.”
He was always polite to me. In public, they said he respected me.
I used to believe it, too. But after everything, I finally understood: He wasn’t being
respectful He was tired of me
2/3 2.0%
His friend nodded politely at me as we left the station. “Thanks for the trouble, Sis!
I simply gave a small nod and followed the officer to finish the paperwork. I was his wife Things like this were supposed to be my duty.
It was the middle of the night. Magnus had been drinking, so I was the one driving. He sat in the back seat. His usually neat hair was a mess, his crisp shirt torn at the collar and one of his hands was bruised and bandaged.
He’d always been the type to keep himself perfectly put together. Now, here he was: disheveled and bloodied… over a new assistant.
Suddenly, his phone rang. He answered it in a tone I hadn’t heard in years–soft, warm.
“It’s nothing. Don’t worry, I’m fine,” he said gently.
“It’s late. You should sleep. No need to wait up.”
Simple words, but the affection in his voice was unmistakable.
I looked at him through the rearview mirror–just in time to catch the smile he couldn’t hide as he hung up.
I asked, casually, “Was that the fight over Fina?”
“Evelyn, don’t start.” Magnus didn’t even flinch. “She’s my assistant. If someone disrespects her and I do nothing, how do you think that reflects on me?”
“You’re Mrs. Finck. You don’t have to deal with this kind of crap. But she’s not you,” he said. It was just a question. But somehow, it set him off.
I kept quiet at that.
Still, he was annoyed. “Take me to the office. I’ve got work to finish.”
I glanced at him again.
Once upon a time, I would’ve worried. I’d have told him not to overwork himself, to take it easy. But such words were caught in my throat now.
I made a U–turn and drove him to the office.
As he got out, he said what he always did, like it was scripted. “Thanks for tonight.” Then he slammed the door shut behind him and walked off without looking back. It wasn’t until I was about to leave that I realized–he’d left his phone in the car.
