After My Husband Stole My Algorithm, I Took Down His Empire

Two days had passed since the boardroom betrayal. I sat in our bedroom, staring at my reflection in the mirror. The woman looking back at me seemed hollow, her eyes sunken with dark circles beneath them. My phone buzzed with another call from the hospital. Mother's condition was deteriorating rapidly.

"Zara." Jacob's voice cut through the silence as he appeared in the doorway. "We need to talk."

I turned slowly, bracing myself for whatever cruelty he had planned next.

"The Seattle Tech Gala is tonight," he said, straightening his already perfect tie. "You'll be attending with me."

"I can't leave Mother alone," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.

Jacob's smile didn't reach his eyes. "That's the thing, Zara. Your presence at the gala determines whether your mother remains in her private care facility or gets transferred to the public ward."

My heart stuttered. "What?"

"Rumors are circulating about us," he continued, examining his manicured nails. "People are talking about marital problems, about you being unstable. Investors are nervous."

"So?"

"So you'll attend tonight, play the role of my devoted wife, and dispel those rumors." His voice hardened. "Or I'll make one phone call and your mother's care becomes a public health priority."

I closed my eyes, feeling the walls closing in. "Fine."

---

The Grand Ballroom of the Fairmont Olympic Hotel glittered with crystal chandeliers and the jewelry of Seattle's tech elite. I stood beside Jacob in a borrowed gown—my own clothes had mysteriously disappeared from our closet this morning.

"Smile," Jacob hissed through clenched teeth as cameras flashed around us.

I forced my lips upward, feeling like a marionette.

"Ah, there he is!" Jacob's voice suddenly boomed as he spotted a group of men across the room. "The investors we need to impress."

He guided me toward them, his hand pressing painfully into the small of my back.

"Gentlemen," Jacob announced, "meet my wife, Zara."

One of the men—balding and reeking of expensive cologne—looked me up and down. "So this is the famous Mrs. Clark? Heard she's some kind of computer genius."

"Just a housewife who dabbles," Jacob laughed, the sound like broken glass in my ears.

Another investor raised his glass. "I heard she's also quite the drinker. What do you say, darling? Care to prove it?"

Jacob's eyes lit up with malicious amusement. He signaled a waiter, who brought over a tray with a bottle of whiskey and several shot glasses.

"My wife doesn't usually drink," Jacob said, "but tonight's special."

He poured a glass and handed it to me, his eyes glittering with challenge.

"Drink it all without vomiting," he whispered for my ears alone, "and I'll transfer ten thousand to your mother's account. Each glass."

My hands trembled as I took the first glass.

"One for the lady!" someone called out.

The whiskey burned my throat, bringing tears to my eyes.

"Good girl," Jacob murmured, patting my head like a dog. "Now another."

I drank glass after glass as the room spun around me. Laughter echoed in my ears, faces blurred together. Someone was betting on how many I could take before passing out.

"Seven... eight..." Jacob counted loudly, his arm around my waist the only thing keeping me upright.

By the tenth glass, I couldn't stand anymore. I collapsed onto a nearby chair, retching onto the marble floor as the crowd erupted in laughter.

"Clean that up," Jacob ordered, his voice distant through the fog in my brain.

---

Hours later—or perhaps minutes, time had lost all meaning—I found myself in a quieter corner of the ballroom. The whiskey had worn off enough for me to stand, though my vision remained blurry.

"Zara." Willa's voice cut through the haze. She stood before me in designer heels, a glass of red wine in her hand.

Before I could respond, she deliberately tipped her glass. The red liquid splashed across the floor and onto her white shoes.

"Oh dear," she said with mock concern. "Look what you made me do."

Jacob appeared at her side instantly. "Zara, clean up this mess."

"I didn't—" I began.

"Now." His voice left no room for argument.

From somewhere nearby, I heard a familiar voice—Andrew West, Jacob's biggest competitor.

"Is this how you treat your wife?" he asked, stepping forward.

Jacob's grip on my arm tightened painfully. "Mind your own business, West."

Willa extended her foot, pointing to her stained heel. "My Louboutins. They're ruined."

I looked around wildly, seeing no cleaning supplies. Jacob thrust my silk shawl into my hands.

"Use this," he commanded.

Slowly, I knelt before Willa, the shawl clutched in my trembling hands. The room seemed to hold its breath as I reached toward her foot.

"Zara," Andrew's voice was gentle, "don't do this."

But I did. With mechanical movements, I wiped the wine from Willa's heels as cameras flashed and whispers spread through the crowd.

When I finished, Jacob helped me to my feet with false tenderness. "Good girl," he murmured, loud enough for everyone to hear.

In that moment, as I stood between them—Jacob's trophy and Willa's servant—something inside me died completely.