Stacey
Stepping out of the elevator, I glance around before heading left down the corridor. The echo of my high heels on the marble floor accompanies me as I confidently stride, my figure accentuated by the tight dress and my hair cascading in loose curls.
As I walk through the empty corridor of the exclusive fifty-seventh floor, reserved for the wealthy who have booked the entire level, I come across a security guard stationed in one corner. His gaze follows me as I make my way towards him. Clearing his throat, he addresses me, "Mrs. Williams..." but his voice falters, and I notice the color draining from his face.
Despite my escalating anger, I remind myself to maintain composure and not lash out at the security guard. That's not what ladies from rich societies do."Is Mr. Williams inside?" I inquire while standing outside the penthouse door, anticipating his response. However, he stutters, fueling my growing skepticism. "Uh, I -" Before he can continue, I raise my hand, signaling him to stop speaking.
"Open the door!" I assert firmly, my eyes fixed sharply on the door above me. My heart pounds in my chest as I impatiently anticipate the scene I am about to witness. Mentally and physically bracing myself, I prepare to confront my husband, expecting to catch him red-handed with another woman.
My suspicions began to grow as I frequently discovered hotel check-in slips, pricey restaurant bills, and shopping receipts among my husband's belongings. Occasionally, the bills for his shopping would arrive at our home, either through delivery or a personal visit from the store manager. One thing became clear to me - those lavish gifts were not intended for me, as I never once received them.
What made me silent all along? Because those were just accusations and I wasn't sure to confront him based on no strong evidence. So I wait, patiently, of course, spying on him. I wouldn't lie to admit that I hired a detective for my husband and he showed me the proofs of him being involved with certain women.
My husband is a cheap man with no caliber. Despite working for one of the most prestigious firms in New York, my husband's insatiable greed and lust for women have become apparent over the years. We've been married for nearly two years, but I've known him for over seven.
His unrelenting desire and insatiable nature have cast a shadow over the charm that initially drew me to him, leading me to agree to marry him quickly. His facade of charm has slowly faded, revealing a darker side that I can no longer ignore.
And him? He was undoubtedly after my wealth, as I am the sole heir of the substantial inheritance left to me by my grandparents. My husband persistently urged me to transfer it under my name until he learned the truth - that we must have a child together to inherit the wealth. And this bastard cannot become a father.
“Open the door!” I command once again, my tone remains firm, this time a little louder than before. “But, madam, Mr Williams is having a meeting inside.” A meeting? I scoff mentally. What kind of business meetings happen in the middle of the night? And that too in a penthouse of the hotel. He might fool everyone, but not me. I am aware of the blood that passes through his veins, and I know that he is cheating.
I just want to confirm it.
The security guard hesitates momentarily before pushing the door open, and I cautiously scan my surroundings before entering. As I step into the living room, everything appears normal at first glance. However, my gaze is drawn to the kitchen counter, where two glasses sit neatly with traces of red wine still lingering in them.
The sight raises a flicker of unease within me, hinting at a possible scenario that I had not anticipated. The lipstick smudge on one of the glasses is a clear sign that he's been with another woman. I pick up the glass, my frustration growing as I realize the truth. Suddenly, I hear noises coming from the other room, piquing my curiosity.
I cautiously approach the closed door and strain to listen. The sounds of a woman's screams and my husband's moans pierce through the silence, confirming my worst fears of his disloyalty.
I cautiously push the door open, the hinges creaking softly as I peer inside. My heart sinks as I witness the painful sight before me: my husband engaged in a passionate encounter with another woman on the bed. They are both undressed, lost in the moment as he thrusts into her from behind.
And I don't intend to confront him right here, so I silently turn to walk away, leaving the penthouse. As I step outside, the guard's guilty gaze meets mine, and I issue a warning with a threatening undertone. "Don't you dare breathe a word to him about my presence here. Understand?" The guard nods in response, clearly intimidated.
I grab a handful of dollar bills from my purse and toss them in his direction before I briskly turn and walk away, leaving the guard with a mix of relief and apprehension.
As I make my way down the empty corridor, the distressing images of the scene I just witnessed play on a loop in my mind, causing my heart to race uncontrollably. Despite expecting the betrayal, an overwhelming sense of unease and nausea washes over me, questioning why I feel so unwell.
Suddenly, my foot catches on something, causing me to stumble and barely catch myself from falling. A wave of dizziness engulfs me, and darkness begins to creep into my vision. The energy drains from my body, leaving me weak and unable to stand on my own two feet.
Despite my eagerness to leave the hotel quickly, I find myself getting caught up in the unknown. Suddenly, I stumble and fall to the ground, completely giving in to my exhaustion. "Help! Someone fainted!" I hear voices rushing towards me. "Are you okay?" a deep voice asks, but I'm too tired to even open my eyes to see who it is. I really hope it's not my husband, as I don't have the strength to face him right now.
NarratorThe storm outside is mild compared to what brews behind the gilded walls of the Martinez estate. Inside Tyler’s sprawling mansion, Marsiella Martinez sits across from him, her expression unreadable, as always—a woman skilled in masks, manipulation, and rot.“She’s too comfortable,” Marsiella says, fingering the rim of her wine glass. “Stacey thinks she’s won. She walks around that house like it belongs to her.” Tyler watches her carefully. “She’s carrying Juan’s child, Marsiella. What exactly are you hoping to accomplish?”“I’m hoping to remove her. Permanently.” Her tone is colder than the crystal in her hand. Tyler shifts, uneasy. “You want to kill her?”&ldqu
NarratorThe house is quiet after midnight—too quiet for a home full of tension. The soft murmur of voices slips from behind the master bedroom door, and Marsiella stands just beyond it, her ear pressed gently against the polished wood.Inside, Juan and Stacey are arguing. Not loudly—no shouting. Just that low, tight tone lovers use when they’re trying not to fall apart. “I’m trying my best,” Stacey says, voice trembling. “I’ve ignored every insult, every taunt. But your mother is poisoning the house, Juan.”There’s a pause. Marsiella smirks to herself. She doesn’t need to hear Juan’s response to know it’s laced with fatigue and hesitation.“I can’t deal with this right now,”
StaceyNancy and I start working right after breakfast. The guest list is small, intimate. Just my closest friends—Raya, Rose, Dani, and Mae. Women who know me, love me, and have stood by me through storms I thought would drown me.We light candles, set out fresh gardenias in crystal vases, and prepare a modest spread—lemon tartlets, smoked salmon bites, Nancy’s famous rosemary chicken, and a chilled bottle of sparkling peach cordial. The house smells like citrus and lavender, a strange kind of calm before the inevitable chaos.I’m arranging place cards at the table when I hear the sharp click of heels against marble.“Hosting a tea party?” Marsiella sneers, crossing her arms as she surveys the decorations. “No,” I say with
StaceyI wake up to the smell of toast burning. Nancy never burns toast.I throw on a robe and pad downstairs, my pulse already tight with dread. I know before I even reach the bottom of the staircase who’s taken over the kitchen. And when I turn the corner, I find her—Marsiella—standing in front of the stove like she’s always belonged here.She turns her head slightly, as if she hears my footsteps, but doesn’t greet me. She’s dressed to perfection, hair swept up, blouse crisp, and her lips painted like she’s ready for a public appearance. There’s no mess, no clutter—except for the smoke curling from the toaster.Nancy stands in the corner like a shadow, her hands fidgeting with a dishtowel, clearly displaced. I
StaceyI’m in the kitchen early, before the sun has fully pushed through the clouds, slicing strawberries and humming softly under my breath. Nancy’s working beside me, her hands steady as always, prepping breakfast for the day. There’s something comforting in the scent of fresh herbs and butter sizzling gently in the pan. It’s the only sense of normalcy I have left in this house.And then I hear it. The sharp tap of heels against the tile floor. “Good morning,” Marsiella says, her voice soaked in sugar and poison. I stiffen, fingers tightening around the knife. “Good morning,” I manage, without turning around.She watches us silently for a beat too long, then crosses the kitchen like she owns it—like she’s always owned it. “I’ve been thin
StaceyJuan hasn’t smiled in days.Even now, seated beside me at the breakfast table, he barely lifts his eyes from the plate. His fork scrapes against porcelain, a lifeless sound that feels like nails on my nerves. His shoulders sag with invisible weight, jaw tight as if it hurts to even chew. I know that posture. I know that pain.His mother sits across from us, pristine in her linen blouse, her makeup sharp and untouched by time. I try to match her politeness, meet her cold eyes with warmth, but she only glances at me like I’m some stray that wandered into her perfect estate.She doesn’t need to say anything—her silence cuts sharper than her words.“You haven’t touched your toast,