Husband's Affair with the Intern

The perfume hit me the moment I opened the passenger door of Damian's car. Sweet, cloying jasmine with undertones of vanilla—nothing like the light citrus scent I'd worn for years. My stomach dropped as I slid into the seat, the foreign fragrance wrapping around me like an accusation.

"What's that smell?" I asked, trying to keep my voice casual as Damian started the engine.

He glanced at me briefly, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "What smell?"

"The perfume. It's... strong."

"I don't smell anything." His knuckles whitened against the steering wheel as we pulled out of our driveway.

I wanted to believe him. God, how desperately I wanted to believe him. But as we drove toward the company holiday party, that sickly-sweet scent seemed to grow stronger, seeping into my clothes, my hair, my very skin.

The office building sparkled with holiday lights, transforming the usually sterile corporate environment into something almost magical. Almost. I smoothed down my navy dress—conservative, elegant, the kind of outfit a devoted wife wore to her husband's company party. Safe. Forgettable.

We'd barely made it through the lobby when I saw her.

Sage Harper stood near the elevator in a dress that could only be described as liquid fire. The red fabric clung to every curve, the neckline plunging just low enough to be inappropriate for a company function but not quite enough to be called out. Her blonde hair cascaded over one shoulder in perfect waves, and her lips matched her dress exactly.

She turned as we approached, her face lighting up with practiced surprise. "Damian! You made it!" Her voice was honey and silk, designed to draw attention.

"Of course," he replied, and I noticed how his posture straightened, how his voice warmed in a way it hadn't when speaking to me all week.

Sage's eyes flicked to me briefly—a cool assessment that lasted perhaps two seconds before dismissing me entirely. "And you must be Celeste. I've heard so much about you."

I doubted that. "Nice to meet you properly, Sage."

"Oh!" She suddenly pressed her hand to her chest, her eyes widening with theatrical concern. "I just realized—I think I left my perfume in your car yesterday, Damian. I was so scattered after that presentation."

My blood turned to ice. There it was. The explanation delivered with perfect innocence, complete with a reason for her to have been in his car recently.

Damian's face remained carefully neutral. "I didn't notice anything."

"It's my favorite—Jasmine Nights by Chanel. I'm so clumsy sometimes." She laughed, a tinkling sound that made my teeth ache. "Thank you for taking such good care of my things. You're always so thoughtful."

As she spoke, she reached out and touched his arm—not a casual brush, but a deliberate caress that lingered just a moment too long. Her fingers traced the fabric of his suit jacket with an intimacy that made my chest tighten.

"It's nothing," Damian said, but he didn't pull away from her touch.

The elevator arrived with a soft ding, and we rode up in silence. But I could feel the electricity between them, crackling in the confined space like a live wire. Sage stood just close enough to Damian that her perfume—that same jasmine scent—would reach him with every breath.

The party was already in full swing when we arrived. The conference room had been transformed with twinkling lights and elegant decorations, colleagues mingling with drinks in hand. I should have felt festive, celebratory. Instead, I felt like I was watching my marriage dissolve in real time.

Damian guided me to a table near the back, his hand on my lower back—a gesture that once would have made me feel cherished. Now it felt perfunctory, a husband going through the motions.

"I should make the rounds," he said, already scanning the room. "Network a bit."

"Of course," I replied, settling into my chair. "I'll be here."

He kissed my cheek—dry, quick, obligatory—and disappeared into the crowd. Within minutes, I spotted him near the bar with Sage, their heads bent together in conversation. She threw back her head and laughed at something he said, her hand finding his arm again.

I sat alone at our table, watching my husband charm another woman while I became invisible. Colleagues I'd met at previous parties walked past without acknowledgment, their attention drawn to the magnetic pull of Sage's presence across the room.

The music started, and couples began moving to the makeshift dance floor. I watched, my heart sinking, as Sage extended her hand to Damian with a coy smile.

"Dance with me?" she asked, loud enough for nearby colleagues to hear. "I promise I won't step on your toes."

Damian glanced back at me—one quick look that might have been guilt or might have been obligation—before taking her hand. "One dance," he said.

But it wasn't one dance. It was three. Then four. I lost count as I sat frozen in my chair, watching them move together with an ease that spoke of practice, of familiarity. Sage's body molded against his as they swayed to the slow songs, her head resting against his shoulder like she belonged there.

Other wives had joined their husbands on the dance floor. Other couples laughed and talked and celebrated together. I remained at our empty table, a ghost at my own husband's party.

When the music finally ended, Sage made sure to thank Damian loudly enough for half the room to hear.

"You're such an amazing mentor and friend," she gushed, her voice carrying over the applause. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

The words hit me like a slap. Mentor. Friend. The way she said them, with that slight emphasis, that knowing smile—it was a claim. A public declaration of ownership disguised as gratitude.

I reached for my purse with trembling hands, my fingers finding the small packet of origami paper I'd started carrying everywhere. Tonight would make ninety-eight stars.

Two more, and Damian's wedding promise would be complete.