~The Good Wife~

Chapter One

The lip gloss stain bloomed pink against Julien's white collar, a perfect imprint of lips that weren't mine. I wore nude shades. I always had. This was the kind of color worn by women who wanted to be noticed.

"Camille." My name sounded tired in his mouth as he loosened his tie. "You're hallucinating."

The word landed like a stone in still water. Hallucinating? As if my eyes couldn't be trusted. As if the evidence of another woman's mouth on my husband's clothes was some trick of my fractured mind.

"I can see it right there," I said, keeping my voice steady even as my pulse hammered against my throat.

Julien sighed, the sound of a man dealing with something tedious and beneath him. "You're imagining things again. It's probably from some client at the fundraiser, you know how those women are. They air-kiss and they grab onto you. It means nothing."

I wanted to argue. I wanted to point out that air-kisses didn't leave stains, that professional distance existed for a reason. But doubt crept in like smoke under a door. He was right about one thing…women did orbit him at those events. Beautiful, ambitious women who saw my husband's billions before they saw his wedding ring. Perhaps one had gotten too close, pressed too eagerly against him in greeting. Perhaps I was being paranoid.

I swallowed the words burning in my throat and nodded. "You're right. I'm sorry."

"Good girl." He kissed my forehead, and I hated how much I wanted to believe him.

But the unease didn't leave. It nested in my chest like something living.

The next incident came three days later. Theo, Julien's business partner and supposed best friend had stopped by the house while Julien was in meetings. We'd known each other for years, and we shared countless dinners and charity events. But lately, something had shifted.

"You look tense," Theo said, coming up behind me in the kitchen. His hands landed on my shoulders, thumbs pressing into the knots at the base of my neck.

I flinched but didn't pull away. That would be rude. Overreacting…making something out of nothing.

"Just tired," I managed, stepping forward to reach for a wine glass, creating distance.

But his hands followed, sliding down my arms in a gesture that felt too intimate. "Julien works you too hard. You should relax more."

When I told Julien that evening, he barely looked up from his laptop. "Theo was probably just making sure you're in good shape. You know how he is protective."

"It didn't feel protective. It felt—"

"What?" Julien's eyes finally met mine, sharp and impatient. "What did it feel like, Camille?"

I faltered. How could I explain the crawling sensation on my skin? The way Theo's touch had lingered too long, pressed too deep? "Inappropriate," I finished weakly.

Julien's laugh was cold. "You're being dramatic. Theo's been my friend for fifteen years. He's like family."

Then he crossed the room and pulled me against him, his grip firm on my waist. "No one can take you from me. You are mine," he said against my mouth.

The words should have thrilled me. It should have felt like reassurance, like love, like the fierce devotion I'd dreamed about when we first met. Instead, they felt like chains clicking shut. Like ownership, not passion. The kiss that followed was hard, claiming, and empty of tenderness.

I told myself I was overthinking things. That marriage required trust, compromise, and the benefit of the doubt.

I told myself this right up until I found the underwear.

I hadn't meant to go through his suit pockets. But the dry cleaning was due, and I was simply checking for forgotten receipts, loose change, the ordinary debris of a man's life. My fingers closed around lace instead.

Red lace. Definitely not mine.

The room tilted. My vision narrowed to that scrap of silk in my shaking hand—someone else's intimacy, hidden in my husband's jacket. Proof. Undeniable, physical proof.

"JULIEN!" My voice cracked as I stormed into his study, the underwear clutched like evidence at a crime scene. "What the hell is this?"

He looked up slowly, and I watched something cold slide across his features. Not guilt, not shame but annoyance.

"Camille—"

"Don't you dare! Don't you dare try to tell me I'm imagining this!" The words tore out of me, months of swallowed doubts and dismissed instincts finally erupting. "You're cheating on me! You're a liar and a cheat and I've been such a fool—"

The slap came fast, hard enough to snap my head sideways. Pain exploded across my cheek.

I staggered back, hand flying to my face, unable to process what had just happened. Julien had never…

"Never question me." His voice was ice. "Never question my decisions. I can do whatever I please. Do you understand? This is my house, my money, my life. You're here because I allow it."

Tears burned hot down my face, but I couldn't make a sound. Shock had stolen my voice.

He stepped forward, fingers gripping my chin hard enough to bruise, forcing me to look at him. Then his mouth crashed against mine in a brutal kiss that tasted like power and contempt. When he pulled back, his thumb traced my swollen bottom lip.

"Now," he said softly, dangerously. "Who's a good wife?"

The words were ash in my mouth. But they came anyway, conditioned by years of pleasing, of smoothing over, of making myself smaller to fit into his world.

"I am.” The words came out automatically, like something I'd been trained to say. Like chains that had become so familiar I barely felt their weight anymore. But buried somewhere beneath all that obedience, something flickered. A small, defiant voice that wondered if all I would receive throughout this marriage were half-hearted apologies and pain dressed up as devotion.