Placeholder Wife Decides to Leave

The photographs hit the internet at 6:47 AM.

I was still in my silk pajamas, nursing my first cup of coffee in the marble kitchen of our penthouse, when my phone erupted into a symphony of urgent ringtones. The PR team's emergency hotline. The family lawyer. Vincent's personal assistant. Even the housekeeper was calling—probably fielding calls from reporters already camping outside our building.

My hands didn't shake as I swiped to answer the first call. They never did anymore.

"Mrs. Müller, we have a situation," came the clipped voice of Janet, our head of public relations. "Photos of Mr. Müller with Isabella Rossi surfaced an hour ago. They're... compromising."

I set down my coffee cup with deliberate care, the porcelain making the softest clink against the marble countertop. "How compromising?"

"Hand-holding. Intimate dinner at Le Bernardin. Her head on his shoulder in the back of his car."

Of course. Isabella Rossi—the Brazilian supermodel with legs that went on for days and a smile that graced magazine covers worldwide. Vincent had been 'consulting' with her about some charity gala for weeks now. I'd seen her name on his calendar, blocked out in neat two-hour increments.

"I'll handle it," I said, already moving toward my laptop. "Send me everything."

The next three hours blurred together in a familiar dance of damage control. Press releases crafted with surgical precision. Strategic leaks to friendly journalists about Vincent's 'business dinner' with the model regarding her upcoming charity work. Social media posts carefully timed to flood the news cycle with other stories. Phone calls to editors, invoking old favors and making new promises.

By 10 AM, I was dressed in my armor—a tailored navy suit that made me look competent and unshakeable, my dark hair pulled back in a sleek chignon. I'd learned long ago that looking the part was half the battle in this world of appearances.

Vincent's office building buzzed with its usual morning energy, but I could feel the undercurrent of whispered conversations and stolen glances. The elevator ride to the forty-second floor felt endless, each floor a reminder of how high I'd have to fall if this all came crashing down.

The hallway outside Vincent's corner office was eerily quiet. Too quiet. Through the frosted glass, I could make out two figures—one unmistakably Vincent's tall, broad silhouette, and another, smaller and curved in all the ways that made men forget their wives existed.

I positioned myself strategically by the elevator bank, close enough to intercept any unwanted visitors but far enough to maintain plausible deniability. My phone buzzed constantly—more calls from reporters, more messages from the PR team, more updates on the social media fallout.

"Pathetic."

The voice came from behind me, dripping with familiar disdain. Lucas Müller emerged from the executive lounge, his dark hair tousled and his expensive shirt wrinkled, looking like he'd slept in the office again. At twenty-six, Vincent's younger brother had perfected the art of looking both devastatingly handsome and completely disinterested in everything around him.

"Good morning to you too, Lucas," I replied without turning around, keeping my eyes trained on Vincent's office door.

"Is this what you've reduced yourself to? Standing guard like some kind of... security detail?" He moved to stand beside me, his presence radiating the kind of restless energy that always made me feel slightly off-balance.

I kept my voice steady, professional. "I'm managing a situation."

"You're enabling a situation." His laugh was sharp, cutting. "Do you even hear yourself? 'Managing a situation.' Christ, Camila, you talk like a corporate press release."

The elevator dinged, and I tensed, but it was just another executive heading to a different floor. False alarm.

"This is my job, Lucas."

"No," he said, his voice dropping to something dangerously quiet. "Your job is supposed to be being his wife. This... this is just sad."

Before I could respond, Vincent's office door opened. Isabella Rossi stepped out first, her long black hair cascading over her shoulders like silk. She was even more stunning in person—the kind of beautiful that made other women question their own reflection. She glanced at me briefly, her dark eyes flickering with something between amusement and pity, before clicking away on heels that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent.

Vincent followed a moment later, straightening his tie. His steel-gray eyes found mine immediately, and for a split second, something unreadable passed across his face. Guilt? Annoyance? It was gone too quickly to decipher.

"Camila," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "I wasn't expecting you."

"The photos," I said simply.

He nodded once, a sharp jerk of his chin. "Handled?"

"Handled."

Lucas made a sound of disgust. "Jesus, you two. Do you even hear yourselves? You sound like robots."

Vincent's jaw tightened, but he didn't look at his brother. His attention remained fixed on me, those gray eyes searching my face for something I wasn't sure I wanted him to find.

"We should go home," he said finally. "It's been a long morning."

The ride back to our penthouse was silent except for the soft hum of the car's engine and the occasional buzz of my phone. Vincent sat beside me in the backseat, his attention seemingly focused on the city streaming past his window, but I could feel the tension radiating from him like heat from a furnace.

Our penthouse felt different when we walked in together—larger somehow, the silence more pronounced. Vincent loosened his tie as he headed toward the kitchen, and I followed, already mentally cataloging what needed to be done for dinner. The housekeeper had left early, as she always did on Wednesdays, leaving me to manage the evening routine.

I was pulling ingredients from the refrigerator when I felt him behind me. The warmth of his body, the subtle scent of his cologne—bergamot and something darker, more complex. His hands settled on my shoulders, and I froze.

"You're cold," he said, his voice softer than I'd heard it in months.

Before I could protest, he was draping his suit jacket around my shoulders. The fabric was warm from his body heat and smelled like him—that intoxicating combination of expensive fabric softener and the cologne I'd given him for our first anniversary, back when I still believed in grand gestures.

"Vincent, I—"

"Sit," he said, guiding me toward one of the bar stools at the kitchen island. "You've been running around all morning cleaning up my mess. The least I can do is make sure you eat."

This was wrong. This wasn't how we worked. Vincent didn't do domestic. He didn't fuss over meals or worry about whether I was cold. He certainly didn't take responsibility for the messes that required cleaning up.

But his hands were gentle as he guided me to sit, and there was something in his eyes—a softness I hadn't seen in so long I'd almost forgotten it existed.

"I can handle dinner," I said weakly.

"I know you can." His fingers brushed against my cheek, barely a whisper of contact. "You handle everything. But tonight, let me."

I sat there, wrapped in his jacket, watching my husband move around our kitchen with an efficiency that surprised me. When had he learned to cook? When had he started paying attention to which vegetables I preferred, which seasonings I kept where?

The silence stretched between us, but it felt different from our usual cold detachment. There was something electric in the air, a tension that made my skin feel too tight and my breath catch in my throat.

Whatever this was—this unexpected tenderness, this moment of connection—I knew it wouldn't last. It never did. But for now, wrapped in his warmth and watching him try to take care of me, I allowed myself to pretend that maybe, just maybe, things could be different.