Mag-log inyoung billionaire wife risks her marriage, status, wealth, etc... just for sexual satisfaction and affection. Had an affair with her housekeeper's son and changed the trajectory of her life.
view moreThe last guest left at midnight.The door closed with a hollow thud that echoed through the penthouse like a reminder thatbeneath all the sparkle and laughter, silence always wins.Elena stood barefoot in the living room, her sequined dress shimmering under the low amberlights. Her hair was loose now, falling over her shoulders in waves that had begun to frizz fromthe night’s heat. The city blinked beyond the glass walls — Paris never slept, but she could feelherself shutting down inside.Alex was at the bar, unbuttoning his shirt, pouring himself a drink with the kind of composurethat only guilt or practice could build. The clink of glass against marble sounded too precise.Too calm.“You didn’t enjoy yourself,” he said finally, his voice low, steady — the kind of tone that alwaysmade her wary. “You barely smiled.”Elena’s lips curved, but not into a smile. “Maybe I just didn’t like the company.”His gaze met hers in the reflection of the glass. The air tightened between them.
The silence that followed was sharp. Alex tensed, and for the first time that evening, Varenne’ssmile slipped.“I hope you enjoy the rest of your night,” Elena added, her tone sugar-dipped steel.Then she leaned closer to Alex, whispering just for him, “You can either stand here and pretendshe doesn’t make you hard, or you can come home with your wife and remember who taughtyou control.”She didn’t wait for a response.As she walked away, heads turned — people watching the couple that seemed perfect but neverrealizing the storm beneath the surface. Claudia watched too, eyes narrowing.Varenne tilted her head, studying Elena’s retreating form, then leaned toward Alex. “You knowwhat’s fascinating about women like her?” she murmured. “They think fury makes thempowerful. But fury only makes them visible.”Alex didn’t answer. His hands were clenched at his sides.“Relax,” she said softly, brushing a manicured nail along his wrist. “You’ll see soon enough —visibility can be just as s
The chandelier light fractured across her champagne glass, turning the bubbles into tiny,glimmering lies. Elena smiled, poised, every inch the gracious host. Around her, laughter andperfume swirled through the ballroom — charity donors, investors, people who applauded inpublic and betrayed in private. She had learned to move among them with practiced grace, asmile that could freeze an entire room.Across the crowd, Madame Varenne stood in crimson silk, her gaze cutting through the noiselike a whispered dare. She didn’t look like a guest. She looked like the event had been designedfor her — a stage for power, temptation, and quiet control.Elena lifted her glass, pretending she hadn’t noticed the silent claim in Varenne’s eyes. But shehad. Every woman in the room had.“Your guest list keeps getting more interesting,” Claudia murmured at her side, lips barelymoving. She looked effortless as always — dark curls spilling over her shoulders, the calm ofsomeone who’d seen too much
Paris never truly slept — it only dimmed.The city outside their penthouse windows pulsed in restless amber light, cars humming overwet streets, the Seine breathing fog against the night. Inside, the clock ticked past nine. Dinnersat untouched on the table, candles reduced to trembling wax.Alex had said he’d be late.“Just one more meeting,” he’d murmured earlier, tightening his tie, his cologne heavy andprecise. “It’s important. Don’t wait up.”He hadn’t kissed her goodbye.Elena sat across from the untouched food, chin propped on her hand, watching the reflection ofthe chandelier ripple in her wineglass. The therapist’s words echoed in her mind — ‘Trust is notrebuilt through silence, Elena. It’s rebuilt through consistency.’But how could she trust consistency when Alex was a man of secrets?The phone buzzed. A message from him.“Running late. Don’t stay up, okay?”She stared at the screen until the text blurred. Her throat tightened — not with tears, but withquiet understand
Paris was mercilessly beautiful that afternoon — the kind of light that made deceit look holy.Elena arrived at Varenne Holdings dressed in quiet perfection: a beige silk blouse that fell softagainst her skin, dark tailored trousers, and pearls that caught the sunlight just enough tosuggest wealth without effort. Her hair was pinned back, her expression calm.The receptionist looked up, startled by her presence. “Bonjour, madame. You have anappointment?”Elena smiled, that delicate, composed smile that could disarm anyone. “Yes. Elena Greyson. Ibelieve Madame Varenne agreed to see me regarding an investment partnership.”The words came smooth, believable. She had spent the night rehearsing them, tracing eachsyllable the way she once traced Alex’s excuses.Moments later, the glass doors opened.Madame Varenne stepped out — the same woman whose name had burned across Alex’smessages. Older, yes, but stunning in a way that made youth irrelevant. Black hair coiledperfectly, lips red
He leaned back, eyes closed, running a hand down his face.In his mind, the office replayed—dim lights, her voice low and slow, his control snapping onebreath at a time. He remembered her hands on his jaw, her nails dragging lightly down his chest,the sound she made when he whispered her name against her throat.He hated how easily it came back.How much of him still wanted it.His phone buzzed on the table, shattering the silence.Unknown number.But the text that followed left no doubt.“Sleep well, mon amour. You’ll dream of me anyway.”— V.He stared at the screen for a long time before tossing the phone aside. But the words burnedthrough him. She was everywhere now—inside his head, in his bed, in his guilt.Alex rose, pacing. The penthouse felt too small, too heavy with Elena’s presence. Her perfume,her photos, the half-empty glass of tea she’d left on the table. He stopped by it, staring down atthe faint lipstick stain on the rim.He could still hear her voice, trembling bu






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