The evening had unfurled in a way that was both surreal and yet, in many ways, inevitable. Jessica, my husband’s mistress, used the power of her youth and a carefully curated arrogance to try and undo me. But what she didn’t realize was that the strings she thought she was pulling were attached to a puppet stage I had built with my own hands.
As I stood there, the wine seeping into the fabric of my blouse, I felt a strange sense of calm wash over me. It was the calm of someone who knew they held the winning hand and was ready to play it. The text I sent was brief—a mere handful of words—but it set into motion a series of actions that had been years in the making.
The General Manager appeared almost instantly, his presence a testament to the respect I commanded within my own empire. “Madam?” he inquired, his eyes catching the situation at hand, reading the room like a seasoned conductor who senses the crescendo before it happens.
