Wife vs. Intern, A Luxury Showdown

Chapter 2

Ethan Sinclair would never humiliate me in public.

He was a master of control—cool, measured, unshakable.

"We'll talk at home," he murmured, tracing a slow, familiar line across my palm—our silent code.

"She's just an intern. Not worth your time."

He pulled me into his arms, the warm scent of sandalwood wrapping around me like a second skin.

"First time," I said quietly, my eyes fixed on the third button of his shirt.

He tilted his head. "Hmm?"

"In seven years, no one's ever sat in your passenger seat before."

Ethan froze.

Everyone in Riverstone knew the Sinclair heir kept the world at arm's length.

Plenty had tried to get close.

All of them had failed.

Ethan let out a low chuckle, his thumb brushing lightly against my earlobe.

"So our Miss Whitmore gets jealous after all."

His lips brushed my eyelid, his breath a whisper against my skin.

"It's strictly business," he said, cupping my face in his hands, his gaze burning into mine.

"This seat belongs to you. Only you."

Outside, the streetlights painted shards of gold across his eyes—like a vow, soft but unshakable.

But a woman's intuition is rarely wrong.

Emily Dawson's wide-eyed gaze said everything.

We'd only met once, but the way she looked at Ethan Sinclair—

It wasn't professional.

Not even close.

I thought my warning at the auction would be enough.

I was wrong.

The next day, the necklace that should've been mine—an exquisite crescent diamond pendant—was draped around Emily's delicate neck.

Olivia sent me the photo.

Emily, tear-streaked and smiling weakly, clutched the two-million-dollar necklace like it was some symbol of tragic bravery.

Her social media caption made my blood boil:

"The CEO says girls should be strong!

Yes, sir, my dear CEO!"

There it was.

Brazen.

Shameless.

My fingers went cold, the betrayal stinging like red wine spilled across my favorite white dress.

Reason whispered for composure.

But fury burned hotter.

I inhaled sharply and made a call to the Hermès boutique.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Sinclair!" Victoria's voice practically crackled with excitement.

"Even if we have to empty every Hermès store in Shanghai, we'll make sure you get everything you need!"

By 3 p.m., forty-six meticulously wrapped Hermès boxes arrived at Sinclair Group.

Every female executive assistant—and every woman in the Executive Office—received a necklace worth £12,000.

Every woman... except Emily.

Olivia, ever the strategist, made sure each recipient posted online:

"Mrs. Sinclair says every woman deserves better!

Yes, ma'am, our beloved Mrs. Sinclair!"

The office gossip caught fire.

Within the hour, the whole building was buzzing.

Some even cheekily added:

"Mrs. Sinclair really knows how to play the game."

In the break room, Emily's face drained of color as she fumbled with the clasp of her necklace.

Nearby, two assistants touched up their lipstick, exchanging knowing smirks and giggles sharp enough to cut.

Emily's knuckles turned white around the jewelry box.

Finally, head bowed, she hurried toward the CEO's office—humiliation trailing behind her like smoke.

The diamond pendant didn't even survive twenty-four hours around her neck.