Wife vs. Intern, A Luxury Showdown

Chapter 4

"You shouldn't have treated her like that."

Ethan Sinclair leaned back against the headboard, a cigarette between his fingers, the smoke swirling lazily in the soft lamplight.

I stood in front of the mirror, removing my earrings, the soft clink of metal filling the quiet.

"I've had my eye on that necklace for three months, and you just gave it away. Shouldn't I be upset?"

The mirror reflected his chiseled profile, sharp angles of his jawline that I couldn't look away from.

If a man like him could fall from grace, could I still love him the way I do now?

Ethan stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and walked over to the liquor cabinet. The sound of ice cubes clinking in the glass was sharp in the stillness.

Two million meant nothing to us. The real question was—who did he choose to spend it on?

He leaned against the cabinet, his knuckles tapping rhythmically against the glass. It was the posture of someone who could wait forever, someone who was always in control.

This was the first time we'd fought over an outsider. Our upbringing had always taught us to despise petty squabbles, and we were both raised to never let small issues cloud our bigger goals.

"Ethan, I love you," I said, my voice soft, but firm.

His hand froze in mid-air, the glass still held between his fingers.

"I love the man who's untouched by the world. Remember? You said you wanted someone pure to spend your life with. I became that person—for you."

The crystal of the glass caught the light, scattering reflections in his deep-set eyes.

"Now, we're walking the same path," I added, stepping closer, my gaze steady. "Don't make me stray."

Ethan threw back the rest of his drink, his throat working as he swallowed. His expression was unreadable.

"You're overthinking it."

Ethan Sinclair had always been a man of clear boundaries. He knew my limits, and I knew his. He wouldn't let Emily Dawson cross the line again.

Without special treatment, Emily, once an eager intern, was relegated to basic tasks. She had been allowed to take notes in important meetings at first, but now? She wasn't even asked to make photocopies.

I hadn't ordered anyone to target her.

Ethan understood propriety, so I trusted him to handle it. But the reality of office politics was harsher than we imagined. Opportunists lurked everywhere.

In less than two weeks, Emily, once bright and hopeful, had become unrecognizable—worn out and broken.

The turning point came during the quarterly report meeting.

When the meeting ended, Emily stayed behind alone in the empty conference room. She was kneeling on the thick carpet, her fingers wrapped around a craft knife, scraping at gum residue stuck to the floor.

That's when Ethan walked in.

The sound of her scrubbing made Emily jump, and she scrambled to her feet, but it was too late. His towering presence filled the room, and there was nowhere to hide.

"Mr. Sinclair..."

Tears streamed down her face, uncontrollable this time. It wasn't some act—it wasn't calculated. This was raw emotion. She had once seen Ethan as this untouchable figure, and now, caught in her most humiliating moment, she was helpless before him. She had thought about resigning before, but now, seeing him in person again like this... she just wished the ground would swallow her whole.

In barely a month, the bright, ambitious girl had become so fragile, so broken.

That night, Ethan shattered the first glass since we'd been married. The shards exploded at his feet, scattering across the floor.

"Must you drive her to ruin?" His voice was frigid, his anger barely controlled.

"Sophia, I've respected you—so I've tolerated your harshness toward her."

"Does trampling on a defenseless girl bring you that much satisfaction?" His voice trembled with fury.

Suddenly, I remembered—Ethan's sister, Lily, had taken her own life because of bullying at school. It was his deepest pain, the wound that never healed.

"If this happens again," he said, his voice low, "don't blame me for not holding back."

I stood still, stunned. For the first time since our marriage, he had lost his temper at me—over another woman, over something that hadn't even happened.

The sensation was strange.

Like a delicate crystal shattering in my hands.

Like sand slipping through my fingers, no matter how tightly I tried to hold on.