perfect lives

The morning sun spilled gold across Grace’s marble kitchen floor, but warmth was the last thing she felt. The air was sterile, too clean—like the quiet after a storm. Ryan sat across the table, his jaw tight, fingers wrapped around a mug of coffee he hadn’t touched.

She slid a plate of pancakes toward him with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I added blueberries. Your favorite.”

He didn’t look up. Just stirred his coffee like it might give him answers she refused to say aloud.

The silence between them had grown teeth lately—sharp, unforgiving. Grace knew he felt it. She just didn’t care. Not anymore.

Not since Cain.

Not since she’d tasted power, kissed danger, surrendered to something darker than marriage vows and mortgage payments.

Her phone buzzed in the pocket of her robe. A single name lit up the screen. No emoji. No words. Just *Cain*.

She muted the screen and turned back to Ryan with her sweetest voice.

“You heading into the office today?”

His eyes finally met hers—suspicious, distant. “Eventually.”

He didn’t trust her.

Smart man.

---

Ava adjusted the collar of her cashmere sweater in the foyer mirror, hiding the bruise just beneath her collarbone. It was shaped like a mouth. Cain’s mouth.

She dabbed a touch of concealer over it and smiled—perfect, pristine. The kind of wife the neighbors adored, the kind of mother who baked organic banana bread and drove a hybrid SUV.

Her husband walked past her with a distracted kiss on the cheek. She watched him leave like she always did: eyes cool, thoughts elsewhere.

The moment the front door clicked shut, Ava peeled off the smile and padded down the hall toward her home office—only it wasn’t an office anymore.

It was a command post.

Screens blinked to life. Inventory reports from Cain’s front businesses. Laundering data. Transactions disguised as wedding flower orders and overpriced candles.

She wasn’t just playing house anymore.

She was running part of Cain’s empire from a MacBook and a suburban zip code.

And damn, it felt good.

---

In a charming kitchen filled with pastel mugs and family photos, Samantha dusted powdered sugar onto lemon cookies like a woman with nothing to hide.

Tom, her husband, leaned against the fridge, talking about weekend golf plans.

She smiled, nodding, listening.

The whole time, her mind wandered to the drop she’d made an hour ago—cash tucked into a hollowed-out Bible in a church Cain had corrupted long before she ever knelt in it.

Tom wrapped his arms around her from behind.

“You’ve been glowing lately,” he murmured. “New skincare?”

“Something like that,” she whispered, lips curving.

He kissed her temple.

She handed him a cookie.

---

That afternoon, the three women met at the café on Glendale and Fifth. Their table overflowed with arugula salads and expensive water. Laughter came easy. Or it would’ve, if it were real.

Grace sipped her drink, eyes hidden behind designer sunglasses. “Ryan’s asking questions. He smells blood.”

“Then make sure he drowns before he tastes it,” Ava said without flinching.

Samantha chuckled. “Suburban sharks. Who knew?”

Their voices were low. Measured. The conversation underneath was encrypted in code only women like them could understand. Cain’s empire had taught them how to lie, steal, seduce—and survive.

“Are we still perfect wives?” Grace asked, almost wistful.

Ava answered with a smirk. “We’re better. We’re dangerous.”

They raised their glasses.

To secrets.

To sins.

To survival.

---

That night, Grace waited until Ryan was asleep before slipping into the black dress Cain had told her to wear. No panties. Just instructions and desire.

She drove through the silent streets with her heart beating like war drums.

Cain’s penthouse rose above the city like a dark crown, glittering with violence and luxury. He opened the door shirtless, smirking like a devil with his name already written in her blood.

“You’re late,” he said.

“I wanted to be worth the wait.”

His eyes darkened. “Prove it.”

She kissed him like punishment. He pushed her against the mirrored wall and slid his hand up her thigh like he owned it—because he did.

“Take it off,” he growled.

She obeyed.

The dress pooled at her feet like surrender.

---

They didn’t make love.

They made war.

Teeth. Tongues. Nails.

Cain took her against glass and leather, his voice in her ear, telling her she was his ruin, his favorite lie, his fiercest addiction. She wrapped her legs around his waist and dared him to destroy her.

And when it was over—when her voice was raw and her skin marked—she lay on his chest with his heartbeat echoing in her ear like a drumroll before judgment.

“You’ll lie to him again tomorrow,” Cain whispered. “Wear pearls and pretend you’re still his.”

Grace nodded. “I’ve been pretending my whole life.”

Cain didn’t speak after that.

He didn’t need to.

He already owned the truth she’d never say out loud.