My Cheating Wife's Secret Family

Claire Vance had won. No suspense there.

She claimed gratitude for my contributions, using her shiny new VP title to "escort and protect" my team.

In reality, my team had provided the ink for every stroke of brilliance on her resume.

Only I knew the truth: I never needed her protection. I'd played the supporting role solely to feed her fragile ego.

And now she was weaponizing that concession against me?

Ridiculous.

I didn't bother arguing. I gave her one cold look, turned, and walked into the bedroom to grab my suitcase.

Claire frowned, composure slipping. "Where are you going?"

I ignored her and walked out.

In the corridor, a small figure was curled in the corner. When the child saw me, his eyes lit up—then panic replaced the gloom.

"Auntie Ruby... Daddy! Mommy!"

My footsteps froze. I turned slowly to face the two people behind me.

Claire went rigid. Beside her, Colin flushed a deep, guilty crimson.

"Silly Joseph, this is Auntie Claire." Colin grabbed the boy, pulling him behind his legs like a shield. His voice dripped with practiced helplessness. "Ruby, listen. It was just one time. Claire and I took him to the amusement park, and I casually mentioned Auntie Claire would protect him like a mom. I didn't expect him to take it literally..."

As he finished his frantic explanation, he glanced at Claire. His eyes didn't hold apology—they rippled with lingering, sickening intimacy.

The scene before me was clearly a tacit family of three.

When they'd visited the amusement park no longer mattered. The betrayal was already woven into the child's vocabulary.

I looked at Claire. She opened her mouth, then closed it, hesitation written across her face.

I raised my left hand.

She could have blocked it. She saw it coming. Yet she let it fall.

Smack.

The sharp sound echoed through the hallway, punctuated by Colin's startled gasp and Joseph's frightened shriek.

I quietly admired the result. The red handprint on her left cheek now perfectly matched the one on her right.

"So you've already become a mother, Director Vance." My voice was dangerously calm. "Deeply devoted. Congratulations."

I smoothed my cuffs. "On the day of your wedding banquet, send me an invitation. I'll use my own appointment letter—the one with my name on it—as your wedding gift."

The words landed, and Claire's lowered eyes snapped up. Guilt vanished, replaced by defensive arrogance.

"You want to take over my position?" She scoffed. "You still don't have the ability."

"Whether I do or not," I replied, meeting her gaze, "you know better than anyone."

I didn't wait for a response. I turned toward the elevator.

Behind me, her voice cracked into a hoarse, angry roar.

"Ruby Stephens, don't you dare!"

What is there that I don't dare do?

Years ago, Claire said she wanted to get married. I married her without hesitation.

I was born into an affluent family in a prosperous district. She was a scrapper—a child who'd fought with every ounce of strength to escape the deep mountains of her youth.

That year, she had no house, no car, and a dowry of barely two thousand dollars.

People joked that even my enemies felt sorry for me, watching a high-flying executive settle for so little.

But I knew the truth. When it came to ambition, Claire Vance was my equal.

In just one year, I helped her rise, turning the pity in my enemies' eyes back into red-hot jealousy.

No one understood that I never placed a bet without preparation. I never lacked for the things I wanted. And what I was willing to sacrifice, I had the power to reclaim.

I watched the elevator doors slide shut, cutting off Claire's twisted expression.

I knew it, and she knew it too.

I took a taxi straight back to my parents' estate.

When I lay down in a bedroom larger than the entire living room of our marital apartment, I finally exhaled, tension draining from my shoulders.

In truth, I'd never gotten used to that cramped apartment. It wasn't just the size—the walls were paper-thin, leaking city noise. Central location, but suffocating.

When Claire had insisted on buying it, my mother objected first.

I'd comforted her then, saying the road ahead was long and I wouldn't let my potential go to waste.

I'd always been confident. I believed that in life, as in business, effort guaranteed return on investment.

But Mother, known for her decisiveness, had simply sighed.

"Marriage does not follow reason, Ruby. It is not the same as work."

At the time, arrogant and high-spirited, I hadn't understood.

Now I finally did.