His Neglected Wife

My marriage to tech billionaire Carter Ashton was a cold, calculated alliance. We projected power at Dallas galas, but privately, it was pragmatic and devoid of love.

Then, one sleepless night, my world shattered. I picked up Carter's tablet, left carelessly. His opened messages revealed "BLH"—Brooke Lynn Hayes, his young intern: "Tonight was amazing. You’re incredible." "Can’t wait to see you again, away from… her." My husband, married for reliability, was just like my scandalous father.

The betrayal turned visceral when Brooke Lynn, thinking *I* was the "other woman," burst into my home with friends and attacked me. As they tore at my clothes, Carter arrived. He didn't defend me, his wife; instead, he dismissed it as a "misunderstanding," protected his intern, and offered a museum board seat to buy my silence. "She’s just a kid," he sneered, "she got carried away."

His words cut deeper. To be dismissed, humiliated, and told his infidelity was "how it works in our world"—casually offered "discreet companionship" if "unfulfilled"—ignited a raw fury. He disregarded my pain, despite knowing my mother's quiet suffering from similar affairs.

But I wouldn’t be my mother. His callousness wasn't just a wound; it was a spark. Done with being silent and suffering, I decided to play his game. My phone buzzed: "Heard you had some excitement. Need a distraction? - R." Rhys Donovan. A new game, on my terms.