The digital clock in the corner of my monitor blinked 8:14 PM, casting a green glow across the darkened office. Below me, Manhattan’s financial district was transitioning to its second shift—janitors, security guards, and the occasional workaholic who couldn’t distinguish between dedication and obsession. I fell squarely into the latter category.
Alone on the thirty-second floor of the glass tower that housed Apex Capital, I sat behind my mahogany desk, surrounded by an avalanche of merger contracts and balance sheets that represented twelve months of grueling work. The acquisition of a mid-sized tech firm—the largest deal my firm had ever handled—was finally nearing completion. My eyes burned with exhaustion, and a dull throb had taken permanent residence behind my left temple, a souvenir from too many late nights and skipped meals.
Every sacrifice I’d made over the past year—every missed anniversary dinner, every weekend spent analyzing spreadsheets instead of relaxing, every social event I’d declined—had a singular purpose: maintaining the extravagant lifestyle that my husband Trevor Miles and his aristocratic family had grown accustomed to on my dime. The Miles family represented Connecticut’s old money, or at least they possessed the surnames and country club memberships that suggested as much. What they lacked, and had lacked for nearly a decade, was actual liquidity.
Their fortune had evaporated in a series of bad investments and lavish spending habits that treated trust funds like renewable resources. That’s where I entered the picture—a high-earning investment banker whose six-figure salary became the engine that kept their legacy from rusting into obscurity. I leaned back in my ergonomic chair, the leather creaking in the silence.
The office felt less like a workplace and more like a beautifully appointed prison, all floor-to-ceiling windows and designer furniture that nobody saw after seven o’clock. I unlocked my phone, the screen brightness making me squint. Despite my exhaustion, I typed a message to Trevor, who was supposedly attending a high-stakes fintech summit in Singapore.
“Take care of yourself. I miss you. Hope the meetings are going well.
Don’t forget to hydrate.”
The message delivered immediately. Two blue checkmarks appeared within seconds—he’d seen it. I watched the screen, waiting for the typing indicator, for any acknowledgment of the wife who funded his lifestyle.
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