“I hid my identity and took a job at my husband’s company. At lunch, I lifted his black thermos and took one sip. His secretary exploded, slapped me across the face, and screamed, ‘How dare you drink my husband’s water?’

Instead, Preston’s low, mocking laughter echoed from the room. He enthusiastically chimed in, agreeing with his mistress. He complained that I was a bland, flavorless woman, desperately clinging to outdated, boring, conservative family values. He whined that living with me was like living with a wooden board. He claimed the only reason he had endured all these years was to secure the absolute trust of the board of directors by playing the role of the devoted son-in-law to the late founder.

He then drowned Khloe in honeyed promises. He swore that in just a short while, once everything fell perfectly into place, he would kick me out of the house, give her a proper, legitimate title, and walk her proudly into high society.

The iced Americano sloshed violently on the tray, a few freezing drops splashing onto the back of my hand, chilling me to the bone. Every word those two animals spoke felt like a razor-sharp meat cleaver, hacking away at the blind trust and foolish sacrifices I had made over the last three years. My kindness had been turned into their personal joke.

I took a deep breath, swallowing the bitter lump forming in my throat. I absolutely refused to let a single tear fall. At my age, faced with the agonizing pain of ultimate betrayal, a woman doesn’t just burst into tears like a naive child. The deeper the pain cut, the more terrifyingly lucid my mind became.

I reached out a freezing hand and forcefully shoved the heavy mahogany door open. It swung wide, hitting the stopper with a heavy thud that echoed through the cavernous executive suite. The two culprits jumped out of their skin, violently shoving each other apart like thieves caught red-handed.

Preston frantically smoothed his hair, clumsily adjusting the lapels of his bespoke Tom Ford suit. Khloe sprang up from the custom leather sofa, her heavily contoured face flashing a brief moment of panic. But merely seconds later, when her eyes locked onto the generic temp badge clipped to my cheap shirt, she instantly regained her arrogant composure, tilting her chin up and glaring at me with daggers in her eyes.

I stepped into the room, my face a blank, emotionless mask, purposely keeping my eyes glued to the imported wool rug. I played the role of the meek, terrified temp perfectly. I approached the massive solid oak desk and carefully set the iced Americano down on a coaster.

Khloe cleared her throat, marched over, and slammed her hand onto the CEO’s desk. She aggressively berated me using the most condescending, vulgar language imaginable. She screamed about incompetent admins barging in without knocking, lacking the basic common sense to see if the CEO was busy. She waved her hand in my face, insulting my cheap, pathetic, hillbilly outfit, claiming it polluted the elite atmosphere of the executive suite. She threatened to march down to HR and dock my pay for my sheer insolence.

I kept my head bowed, murmuring apologies, and took two steps back, perfectly mimicking a reprimanded subordinate. But right as she threw her hand up to point her finger directly at my face, the light from the crystal chandelier caught something, bouncing a blinding flash straight into my eyes from her ring finger.

I looked up closely, and my feet suddenly felt rooted to the floor. My entire body went rigid as a wave of absolute, spine-tingling horror washed over me. On Khloe’s hand was a massive diamond ring, but it wasn’t a generic mass-produced piece from a retail jewelry store. It was a white-gold rose, its meticulously crafted petals wrapping around a stunning blue diamond center.

Every intricate curve and leaf of that design was something I had painstakingly sketched myself over many sleepless nights. It was the blueprint for our upcoming three-year anniversary ring, a top-secret design I kept locked inside my personal biometric safe at home. I had planned to take it to a master jeweler in the San Francisco Diamond District next month.

Why was my highly classified personal design now sitting proudly on the finger of this little mistress as a physical ring?

There was only one answer. Preston had secretly memorized my passcode, opened my personal safe, stolen his wife’s heartfelt design, and had it custom-made for another woman. This betrayal was no longer just the standard wandering eye of a greedy man looking for a thrill. Stealing his wife’s anniversary design for his mistress, humiliating his lawful wife behind her back, promising a future to the other woman—all of this crossed far beyond the boundaries of standard infidelity.