The Fake Trophy Wife

The day the Twelve came after Grantcorp, I was shopping for new handbags at the luxury mall.

Lily, the retail assistant, was holding up the only crocodile-skin handbag of this season before me with her white gloves.

I didn't bother asking about the price and held out the black card I got from Carl Grant.

However, as Lily swiped it, a shrill beep rang.

Rejected.

Lily's smile stiffened for a second, but she soon composed herself and explained, "It could be an issue with the system, Ms. Jones."

However, I was seeing 'insufficient credit' on the screen for the first time.

I had been swiping this card for three years, buying yachts, jewelry and a seaside villa I don't even remember the address of. It never failed me once.

So, I whipped out my phone to call Carl.

No one answered.

In the past, whether he was in the middle of a board meeting or in his private jet, calls from me would just ring for three beeps before he picked up.

I was going to call him again when a rowdy rush of footsteps could be heard outside.

A large group of journalists rushed outside a Grantcorp outlet to take pictures as the signboard was being replaced. The gigantic electronic screen showed that Grantcorp shares were taking a nosedive, with their net worth dropping by the billions in just thirty minutes.

Each ensuing headline was more shocking than the next.

[Ben Grant, board chair of Grantcorp, officially resigns amidst allegations of accounting fraud.]

[Grant's sons remanded for alleged transnational economic manipulation.]

[The Twelve, aptly named partnership of twelve transnational hedge funds, announces joint effort in hostile takeover of Grantcorp.]

I eyed Lily as she started to sneak the handbag away from me. She promptly hung her head, afraid to look me in the eye.

Just minutes ago, she was fawning over me, asking if I'd like to check out the haute couture jewelry section. As soon as there was a hint of crises in the Grant family, she already presumed that I can't afford anything.

People can be really cold these days.

-

Returning home empty-handed, I found the place a complete mess.

Carl's lawyer Max and the rest of Grantcorp's were naturally present, but so were the executives and bean counters. Everyone had their phones out, their concerns vocal and anxious.

Ben sat at the armchair in the center, looking like he just aged a decade.

His wife Molly Chandler was teary-eyed, asking repeatedly about her sons.

Clearly needing a place to vent, Quinn Grant exploded at once when she saw me.

"The family is going bankrupt! Where have you been?"

Her face paled with rage when she saw the bags I was holding.

"Do you even have a heart?"

"Yeah, and it's broken," I sighed. "Saw a bag I like, but the card was rejected."

Quinn was on the verge of tears. "How did Carl end up with a heartless broad like you?"

"Quinn."

A husky voice rang from behind the door just before Carl himself entered. His suit was slung over his hand, his white shirt was very wrinkled, and his eyes were bloodshot.

It must have been a while since he had a good night's sleep.

However, when he saw me, he still stopped to give me a once-over.

Then, he said, "Don't listen to their nonsense."

I nodded and purred, "You're the best, dear."

Quinn rolled her eyes and stormed off, while Carl quietly took out a new debit card and put it in my palm. "This one is still usable."

"How much?"

"Five mil."

I frowned. The cards he gave before were always eight figures at minimum.

Carl could see my disapproval.

Staying silent for a beat, he patted my head and said, "Just make do for the time being."

-

No one was at dinner in the evening. I sat alone, finishing all six dishes the chef cooked.

Even at 2 a.m., the lights in the study upstairs were still lit.

I went over, intending to ask Carl when the old black card could be restored.

I had just reached the door when I heard Max, his lawyer, saying quietly, "Look, the Twelve has seized all our foreign accounts. If we don't have any dough before the stock market opens tomorrow, we're finished."

The study turned silent for a long while, until Carl finally spoke, "Liquidate all my personal assets. And where's that plane ticket?"

Max did a double take. "You're running?"

"No. It's not for me."

That was when the doors suddenly opened, with Carl pausing for a moment when he saw me.

He briskly slid my passport and the plane ticket into my palm.

"Pack your things. I'm sending you abroad first thing tomorrow morning."