He said he needed me to handle the social aspects—entertaining clients, organizing fundraisers, maintaining the image of the successful power couple. I became expert at hosting dinner parties where I served elaborate meals I’d spent days preparing, at making conversation with investors’ wives about topics that bored me to tears, at presenting the perfect facade of domestic contentment while my own dreams withered. My design portfolio gathered dust in a closet.
My creative ambitions faded into background noise. When old colleagues reached out with freelance opportunities, Marcus discouraged me. “We don’t need the money,” he’d say.
“I need you focused on us.”
Three days before my life unraveled completely, Marcus stood in the doorway of our bedroom with his arms crossed, his expensive Italian watch catching the afternoon light. Behind him stood the woman who had replaced me—Sabrina Chen, his business partner and lover—wandering through my living room as if inspecting property she already owned. She ran her fingers along the back of my sofa, the one I’d spent weeks selecting from catalogs, and examined the artwork on the walls with the cold assessment of someone calculating resale value.
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