I never told my husband I owned a five-billion-dollar empire. To him, I was still “the useless housewife.” At his promotion party, he forced me to wear a maid’s uniform and serve drinks, while his mistress sat in the place of honor, wearing my jewelry. I kept my head down and served quietly—until his boss saw me and stopped cold. He bowed slightly and said, “Good evening, Madam Chairwoman.” My husband laughed nervously. “Sir, you must be mistaken—she’s just my wife.” His boss looked at him and replied, “No. You work for her.” My husband’s face drained of color. What happened next left him completely shattered.

“I’m home,” he announced, not waiting for a response. He walked straight past Elena to the fridge, grabbing a beer.

“Hi, honey,” Elena said, wiping her hands on her apron. “How was work?”

Mark sighed—a long, dramatic exhale designed to solicit sympathy. “Brutal. Absolutely brutal. The board is putting so much pressure on Marketing. They don’t understand vision, Elena. They just want numbers. But I handled it. I always do.”

Elena nodded, suppressing the urge to correct him. She knew exactly what the board wanted because she was the board. She had sent the email directive that morning demanding better ROI on the new ad campaign—the campaign Mark was supposedly leading.

“I’m sure you did great,” Elena said softly.

Mark took a long swig of beer and looked around the kitchen. “Is dinner ready? The place looks a bit… chaotic.”

He gestured vaguely at a stack of mail on the counter.

“I was just finishing up the laundry,” Elena lied. In reality, she had been on a secure video call with the Prime Minister of Singapore. “The casserole needs five more minutes.”

Mark scoffed. “You know, I ran into Dave from Sales today. His wife is a lawyer. Partner at her firm. She brings in six figures.” He looked at Elena with a mixture of pity and disdain. “It must be nice to just… exist. To have no real pressure.”

Elena felt the familiar sting. It wasn’t the insult itself—she had thicker skin than that. It was the irony.

Five years ago, Mark had been unemployed, depressed, and borderline suicidal. Elena, already a secret millionaire from her early patents, had fallen in love with his vulnerability. To build him up, she had crafted a narrative: she was a freelance graphic designer struggling to find work, and he was the rising star. She had used her connections to get him an entry-level job at one of her subsidiaries. She had secretly guided his career, feeding him ideas, fixing his mistakes late at night, and ensuring his promotions.

She had dimmed her light so he could shine. And now, blinded by that artificial glare, he couldn’t see her at all.

“I do my best, Mark,” Elena said, her voice tight.

“I know, babe,” Mark said, patting her head condescendingly. “Just… try to look a bit more presentable tomorrow. The promotion party is a big deal. The CEO might be there. I don’t want you looking like… well, like this.”

He gestured at her apron.

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