My Wife Is My Secret Mistress

On our wedding night, my husband pointed a loaded gun at my head on the roof of a forty-story building, and honestly, that pretty much tells you everything you need to know about our dynamic.

He didn't pull the trigger, obviously. He just wanted to see if I would beg, if I would crack under the pressure of the empire I had just married into. I didn't flinch.

I just stared down the barrel, and walked back downstairs to cut our five-tier fondant wedding cake for the paparazzi.

My marriage to Steve Carter is a masterclass in fiction.

To the world, we are the city's newest power couple, a seamless merger of two legacy families designed to dominate the social pages and secure his upcoming bid for the senate.

We smile for the flashbulbs, our hands perfectly intertwined.

But the second the heavy doors of our penthouse click shut, the performance ends.

We sleep in separate wings of a twelve-thousand-square-foot fortress of white marble and modern art.

We don't speak. We don't eat together. If I need something, I leave a note for his assistant and if he needs me for a gala, a calendar invite silently appears on my phone.

I know absolutely nothing about the man whose last name I now share, aside from the fact that he prefers his scotch neat and clearly has a penchant for dramatic rooftop threats.

And he knows absolutely nothing about me.

He thinks I'm just another hollow socialite, perfectly content to spend my days swiping his black card and my nights suffocating in silk.

But he possesses a specific neurological quirk that makes my double life entirely possible.

Steve has severe prosopagnosia, in lay man terms - face blindness.

To my husband, my face is a blank canvas. He couldn't pick me out of a police lineup if his life depended on it.

He relies entirely on secondary cues to recognize people.

He knows I am his wife because of the distinct clicking rhythm of my heels on our hardwood floors, the lingering scent of my expensive Baccarat Rouge perfume, and the fact that I am usually wearing the obnoxious two-carat diamond he bought me for the cameras.

Strip those away, and I am a complete stranger to him.

Which is exactly how I get away with what I do.

The Neon Orchid is a subterranean world bathed in ultraviolet light and heavy, suffocating bass.

It smells like cheap vanilla body spray, sweat, and spilled tequila.

When I step through the reinforced steel doors of the employee entrance, I shed Mrs. Carter like dead skin. Off comes the modest designer trench coat. Off goes the diamond ring, locked safely in a dented metal locker.

I pull on a sapphire-blue wig, styled into a sharp, blunt bob that completely hides my natural dark hair.

I paint my lips a bruised plum and drag thick, dramatic wings of black eyeliner across my lids. I strap myself into eight-inch, clear-heeled Pleasers.

Here, I am not a politician's silent prop. Here, I am exactly who I want to be.

The heavy curtain parts, and I step out onto the main stage.

The music vibrates through the soles of my boots and rattles in my ribcage.

The crowd is a sea of anonymous shadows, their faces blocked by the flashing strobes.

I grab the cold steel of the pole and let instinct take over.

I climb, spin, and drop, suspending my body upside down by nothing but the grip of my thighs.

The physical contact burns, but it's the only time my mind goes quiet.

Down here, nobody cares about who I am. They just care about the arch of my back and the rhythm of my hips.

I collect crumpled hundreds from men who will never know my real name.

My set ends, and I slide off the stage, my skin slick with sweat and adrenaline.

I throw a sheer silk robe over my shoulders, heading straight for the dressing room, when a heavy hand catches my elbow.

It's Dax, the club manager.

His bald head is gleaming under the neon signs, a thick cigar clamped between his teeth.

"Not so fast, Blue," he says, yelling to be heard over the thumping bass of a Weeknd track. "I've got a VIP who specifically requested you. High roller. Dropped five grand just to secure the room for the hour."

I frown, wiping a smudge of glitter from my collarbone. "I don't do private rooms on Thursdays, Dax. You know my schedule."

"You do tonight," Dax counters, his tone brokering no argument. "He saw your stage set. Said he isn't interested in anyone else. Room Four. Get in there and keep him happy."

I let out a harsh breath, adjusting the lapels of my robe. Five grand is five grand, and that's a lot of money for Dax, and the sooner I finish, the sooner I can wash this heavy makeup off and slip back into my silent, marble tomb before dawn.

I make my way down the heavily carpeted hallway, the music fading into a dull, rhythmic thud.

The VIP rooms are dimly lit, bathed in a blood-red glow that makes everyone look like a beautiful nightmare.

I pause outside the heavy velvet door of Room Four, pasting on my best, most dangerous smile.

I push the door open.

"I heard you were looking for me," I purr, stepping into the dim light.

The man is sitting on the edge of the crushed velvet sofa.

He has a glass of amber liquid loosely gripped in his right hand. He's wearing a bespoke Tom Ford suit, the exact charcoal-gray suit I had watched the dry cleaner deliver to our penthouse yesterday morning.

He slowly lifts his head, his cold, calculating eyes locking onto my sapphire wig.

My heart flatlines.

It's Steve.