No Longer His Convenient Wife

Dahlia

I didn’t expect to receive dirty photos of another woman’s legs during a Tuesday afternoon meeting, but here we are.

The photo loaded slow on the conference room Wi-Fi. It showed a woman’s legs stretched out on white silk sheets, smooth and bare all the way up, one knee bent just enough to show the curve of her thigh disappearing under a tiny scrap of black lace that didn’t leave much hidden. Red heels dangled off the edge of what looks like a man’s dress shirt and a thin gold chain around her ankle.

Below the photo, a single line of text — bolded, oddly formal:

Mr. Sebastian, I can’t find my stockings anywhere. Pretty sure I left them at your place last time. Think you could help me find them? ;)

My finger froze on the mouse.

It’s addressed to Sebastian Hawthorne. CEO. My boss.

And—minor detail—my husband.

Jesus Christ.

The conference room feels smaller suddenly. I glance up at the twenty-something faces around the table, wondering if anyone noticed my dilemma. But they’re all watching the woman at the front of the room.

Arabella Montclair had been here exactly one week and was already making clear why she'd been parachuted into the role.

“I can get Valentino himself to design the bridesmaids’ gowns,” she says, ticking points off on her perfectly manicured fingers. “Zarra—you know, the violinist who only performs for royalty—she owes me a favor.”

She pauses for effect while her gaze drifts—again—to the head of the table.

Where he sits.

Sebastian's expression gave nothing away. It never did. Black suit, fingers tapping lightly on the polished tabletop, features composed to perfect blankness. I'd known him for ten years. Been married to him for three. I still couldn't read him.

My phone is face down on the table now but I can still see that image burned into my mind.

Whoever sent it clearly did not know that every “surprise” addressed to the CEO would, without exception, pass through the eyes of his lawful wife first.

And I had just never imagined that duty would extend to managing his wandering admirers.

Was he cheating?

My palms were damp. Maybe it was just a provocative email from someone delusional. Maybe it meant nothing.

Just as I was composing a reply directing her to the company's security department for her missing hosiery when—

“Ms. Miller.”

Sebastian's voice cut clean through the room. Twenty heads swiveled toward me.

“Your thoughts?”

Arabella looked too, something bright and contemptuous in her eyes.

For context: we plan luxury events for people with more money than sense. Weddings, galas, product launches. My job is making sure the impossible details actually happen. Right now that means Weston Thayer's wedding — tech billionaire, nine-figure exit before thirty — to Eloise Bennington, whose family name opens doors most people don't know exist. Three days at his Hamptons estate. Fifty million dollar budget.

I'd been living and breathing it for months. Until last Monday, when Arabella decided she wanted it.

I close my notebook. “I think we should give more focus on running the event smoothly instead of just looking impressive on paper.”

Arabella’s smile stays perfectly in place but her shoulders tighten.

Under the table, phones were already lighting up.

AnonymousKoala: Nooo. Ms. Fancy vs Ms. Nerdy. This is going to be very bad.

Floor5Gremlin: Why is the CEO even here? He never comes to departmental meetings.

“Getting an exclusive performer is one piece of it,” I say. “But it means nothing if the execution falls apart.If they’re standing in ninety-degree heat with no shade, or waiting hours for food that never comes, or dealing with a sound system that keeps cutting out. Because if any of those happen, it doesn’t matter who’s performing. Everyone will remember this wedding as a complete mess.”

Despite my churning stomach, I pulled up the plan I prepared. More economical, more reliable, built on actual experience instead of connections.

As I present, colleagues chime in. Support trickles in. I start breathing again.

If Arabella thinks she can just take my project, she's wrong. I spent nights on this.

The department head clears his throat and adjusts his glasses. “Well. Both perspectives have merit. Ms Miller’s plan is solid. We’ll be using that as our foundation.”

I allow myself a small breath.

“However,” he continues, “this is Weston Thayer’s wedding. He wants spectacle. He wants to make a statement.” He looks at Arabella. “Your vision is exactly what will make this the wedding of the year. So I was thinking of having Arabella lead the team and implementing two plans at the same time, with Miller as the consultant. What do you think? A powerful combination!”

The group chat exploded again.

Floor5Gremlin: Consultant? What kind of combination is this? So Arabella gets the credit and Miller does the work. Got it. He's such s of a b—’

AnonymousKoala: Come on. What did you expect? Look at the way CEO looks at her.

Arabella’s face is the picture of gracious humility. “I’m so excited to collaborate.”

I tried my best to keep my smile from looking too menacing. "Me too."

***

The meeting ends five minutes later.

Sebastian left the conference room surrounded by people, including Arabella. I quietly packed up my materials behind them.

Several colleagues came over to check on me. I told them I was fine. But my mind was reeling — the leg photo and the hijacked project spinning together, and I genuinely couldn't decide which one I should be more upset about.

The executive floor bathroom is empty when I walk in.

I run cold water over my hands and look at myself in the mirror. I missed lunch and sleep. Have been running totally on coffee and spite. I look exhausted.

The door opened.

Arabella stopped two sinks down from mine, pulled a gold-cased lipstick from her bag, and applied it without looking at me.

"I wasn't sure at first," she said, capping it.

I glance at her reflection.

“Whether you were sleeping with Sebastian.”

My hand stops.

She’s looking at me now.

“The proposal was good,” she continues. “Better than I expected from someone at your level. So I thought maybe you had an edge. Some kind of… personal connection. But then I thought—no. You’re too… plain for that”

I dried my hands slowly. "Sorry Arabella, should I remind you what you just said is grounds for an HR complaint?"

She smiled like I'd made a small joke. Her gaze dropped to the bag sitting on the counter. Sebastian had given it to me for our anniversary last year. "I was with him when he bought that, actually. Even then I thought the style was dated. The color too."

She looked me up and down, smile deepening. “But it fits quite well for you, such a surprise.”

Something in me snapped tight.

“Stealing a project wasn’t enough?” I meet her eyes in the mirror. “Now you need to weigh in on my bag?”

She looks genuinely amused. “You think too highly of yourself and too poorly of me. I’m here because my family wanted me to get familiar with the domestic market. Your cute little project is nothing special.”

My jaw tightens.

She steps closer. “I’m not here for some mid-level work. I’m here to take back what’s mine. The position. The life.”

Her voice drops. “And the person.”

I studied her confident face, and a thought struck me with sudden clarity. “That email. The leg photo. That was you, wasn’t it? Seriously Arabella? Send a picture of your legs to your boss's work email? ”