~ Side Chick Vs Trophy Wife ~

The men exchanged uncomfortable glances. One of them cleared his throat. Another checked his watch like he suddenly remembered an important appointment.

  "That's enough." Amiir's voice cut through the tension. He stood, his expression still maddeningly neutral.

  "Gentlemen, I apologize that the evening has taken this turn. I'm afraid we'll have to postpone our discussion. My wife is clearly under a great deal of stress and needs proper rest."

I stared at him, my mouth falling open. "Your wife needs rest? That's what you're going with? I just told you your PA sabotaged our dinner, and your response is that I need rest?"

  "We'll reschedule for next week," Amiir continued, completely ignoring me. "Perhaps at the office would be better."

The men stood immediately, gathering their things with the kind of haste that suggested they couldn't leave fast enough.

  "Of course, completely understand," one of them said.

  "Take care of yourself, Mrs. Blackwood," another added, and I couldn't tell if he meant it sympathetically or condescendingly.

They filed out quickly, and Amiir went to see them off, leaving me alone at the table with Cordelia.

For a moment, neither of us moved. But when the front door closed, Cordelia's entire demeanor changed.

She stood slowly, adjusting her blouse with deliberate precision. Then she opened her purse—and pulled out a lipstick.

Burgundy. The exact shade I'd described.

She uncapped it slowly, applied it with meticulous care, taking her time with each stroke. Then she pressed her lips together, making that exaggerated smacking sound that seemed to echo in the quiet dining room.

  "Fenty Beauty's latest edition," she said conversationally, holding up the tube so I could see it clearly. "Very pricey. But your husband loves this shade so much he doesn't mind buying it for me." 

She smiled, running her tongue over her bottom lip.

  "He says he can't resist these lips."

The casual cruelty of her words took my breath away.

  "You're proud of sleeping with someone else's husband," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

  "Oh, honey." Cordelia dropped the lipstick back into her purse, then leaned forward slightly, like she was sharing a secret. "I'm doing you a favor, really. Your marriage to Amiir is built on convenience. I know you've never been in his bed—he's told me all about how you refuse to fulfill your wifely duties."

She straightened, her smile widening.

  "So you have absolutely no right to be angry that I'm doing your job for you. You should focus on being the perfect trophy wife... sitting there looking pretty, hosting dinners that you apparently can't even cook properly... and let me handle the parts of marriage you're too scared to manage."

  "Get out of my house." The words came out strangled.

   "Gladly." She picked up her purse, slinging it over her shoulder with practiced grace. "But just so we're clear: I will continue to make sure Amiir gets his premium fucks from this expensive pussy. Someone has to keep him satisfied, and since you're so determined to play the martyred virgin..."

She trailed off with a shrug, like the conclusion was obvious.

Then she walked toward the door, her heels clicking against the marble floors with sharp, deliberate sounds that seemed designed to echo through the entire house.

I sat there, frozen, as she disappeared into the foyer. Heard her say something to Amiir in a low, intimate voice. Heard him respond with what might have been a laugh.

I stared at the table full of ruined food, at the plates still half-full of over-salted lamb and vegetables, at the wine glasses that hadn't even been touched because everyone had been too disgusted to continue the meal.

Six hours. I had spent six hours making this dinner perfect.

Footsteps approached. Amiir appeared in the doorway, loosening his tie.

  "I hope you're satisfied," he said, his voice cold. "That display was completely inappropriate. You embarrassed me in front of important business partners."

I looked up at him, this monster who was systematically destroying every piece of my dignity.

  “Your side piece sabotaged the dinner," I said.

  "Cordelia is my personal assistant. Nothing more." He said it with such conviction, such perfect insincerity, that I almost laughed. "Your jealousy and paranoia are becoming a serious problem, Lara. I think you need to see someone. A therapist, perhaps. Someone who can help you work through whatever delusions you're developing."

  "Delusions." I stood, my legs shaking but holding. "She was wearing the same lipstick I found on your shirts."

  "She wears makeup to work. Most professional women do." Amiir moved toward the bar cart in the corner, pouring himself a drink like this was just a minor inconvenience in his day. "That doesn't mean anything except that you're looking for problems where none exist."

He took a sip of his drink, as he walked past me toward the stairs.

  "Clean up this mess. And tomorrow, you'll apologize to Cordelia for your behavior tonight."

   "I will never—"

   "You will." He paused on the bottom step, looking back at me. "Or I'll add it to the list of punishments you're accumulating. Your choice."

Then he was gone, climbing the stairs to his bedroom, leaving me alone with the ruins of a dinner I'd labored for.

I picked up one of the wine glasses and threw it against the wall.

It shattered with a satisfying crash, red wine and glass shards spreading across the white paint like blood spatter.

Then I threw another. And another.

His side chick had sabotaged my dinner, and somehow I was the one being blamed for causing a scene.