Wife vs. Intern, A Luxury Showdown

Chapter 6

Emily Dawson's social media was practically a live-stream of high society.

At the Chanel haute couture atelier, she twirled in front of the mirror, captioning the shot: "Mr. Sinclair says this one complements my complexion best."

At a private equity gala, she stood side by side with Ethan, champagne flute in hand.

In a VIP skybox at an international summit, fireworks lit up the sky behind her.

At the Burj Al Arab, their silhouettes were framed by the infinity pool in a photo taken by another couple.

Every post was flooded with envious comments:

"Living the dream."

"Did Emily save the galaxy in her past life?"

"Take us along next time!"

A mutual friend forwarded me her latest update—a photo with the CEO of Greenpeak Capital.

Caption: "Grateful for new horizons."

My phone kept buzzing.

"These days, Emily's feed is more reliable than Ethan's calendar."

"Are you... okay?"

My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I finally replied with nothing but a nodding cat sticker.

Across the conference table, the CFO of Whitmore Group flipped through documents.

"Ms. Whitmore, we need original paperwork for these offshore assets..."

"Which district was the Swiss villa in again?"

"The yacht's registered in the Cayman Islands—we'll need local counsel..."

As I scanned the paperwork spread out on the mahogany table, the truth hit me: Cutting someone out of your life takes more work than letting them in ever did.

Ethan's call came late at night.

The name flashing on my screen made my fingers hesitate for just a moment.

"Mom wants us to come home for dinner," his deep, magnetic voice came through the phone.

"Alright," I replied flatly, as if nothing had happened between us.

The black Maybach pulled up on schedule outside my office building.

The window rolled down, and Emily Dawson's delicate profile was pressed up against Ethan's.

She flashed me a smug smile, her perfectly manicured fingers resting casually on the cuff of his sleeve.

"Sister-in-law should take the front seat," she cooed, her voice dripping with sweetness but laced with malice. "The back is full of gifts for Aunt Margaret."

Without a word, I opened the passenger door.

The cold leather of the seat seeped through my dress as I sat down.

In the rearview mirror, I caught Ethan's expression, suddenly dark and unreadable.

"Mr. Sinclair's merger deal in New York went exceptionally well," Emily leaned forward, her perfume overwhelming the car. "All thanks to my father introducing him to Wall Street connections."

Ethan frowned and rolled down the window, letting the cool night air sweep away the suffocating scent.

His long fingers tapped lightly against his knee—a clear sign of his irritation.

I stared out at the blur of neon lights rushing past the window.

The rustling of fabric signaled Emily inching even closer to him.

"Grandmother said she misses you," she purred, her voice sickly sweet. "I specially picked out that red wine you love."

Ethan let out a cold laugh, his tone sharp.

"You remembered wrong."

His eyes met mine in the mirror.

"That's my wife's preference."

The car fell into an icy silence.

Emily's crimson nails dug into the leather seat.