The CEO's Unread Signature

Brittany snuggled into Caleb's arms, her voice sickeningly sweet.

"I just don't want our COO to feel overworked."

Caleb snorted.

"It's her job. She's been doing god-knows-what all day and even abandoned her post. Making her finish this project is the least she can do."

With a single sentence, he dismissed all my contributions as worthless.

In the past, I might have argued. But I knew now that no matter what I said, in Caleb's eyes, it would just be another excuse.

I was numb. I wouldn't waste my breath.

Sensing my lack of response, Caleb mistook my silence for guilt, and his tone softened condescendingly.

"Nora, this isn't just a job; it's a chance for you to prove yourself. If you can't deliver impressive results, how can you expect to command respect as the COO? Look at Brittany. She was up until three in the morning on this proposal. She has more vision and a better work ethic than you. If you don't step up and solidify your position, she'll replace you before you know it."

Brittany let out a soft, tinkling laugh beside him.

"I'm not that amazing. Nora must have her own exceptional qualities to be COO. Otherwise, why would you have chosen her?"

Caleb scoffed.

"I'd be grateful if she were half as agreeable as you. You're the one who's been identifying all our best investment opportunities this year. This company would be lost without you."

Their carefree laughter crackled through the receiver.

I said nothing. I didn't fight back.

My performance reports were there in black and white for anyone to see. Caleb knew it, too; he simply chose to ignore it.

After seven years together, he was convinced that no matter what he did, I would always forgive him for the sake of our history.

"Alright," Caleb said, his voice brisk again. "Brittany and I have a meeting with a fund manager tonight. Don't drag your feet. Get that proposal finalized as soon as possible."

He hung up before I could reply.

Less than two minutes later, a new post from Brittany popped up on my Instagram feed.

The photo showed two hands clasped tightly over a yacht's railing, with clinking champagne glasses blurred in the background.

I immediately recognized the Patek Philippe watch.

One of those hands belonged to Caleb.

I scrolled down.

Brittany's previous post was from four in the morning. She and Caleb were at a poker table in the Monte Carlo Casino, with towering stacks of chips in front of them.

So, this was what Caleb called "work."

A lavish date.

I let out a bitter laugh. Why bother confronting him? I already knew exactly how it would play out. Even if I threw the evidence in his face, he would twist the facts, invent a dozen excuses, and somehow turn it all back on me, leading to another round of the silent treatment.

And every time, I was the one who caved first.

I went to an art gallery and bought the abstract painting I had long admired. If I was starting a new life, my new apartment would need a splash of color.

I had just gotten home when my phone pinged.

It was a payment notification from the family trust fund.

Caleb had once again used our joint funds to purchase a three-million-dollar penthouse.

Logically, as CEO of the Hayes Group, Caleb was by no means short of money and had no reason to touch my prenuptial assets.

But early in his career, he had seduced investors with his carefully crafted "self-made" image. He preached frugality and publicly condemned extravagance, earning the board's unwavering trust. That persona was the cornerstone of his power, and he had to maintain it at all costs.

To prevent anyone from tracing his personal spending, almost all his luxury expenses were paid out of our joint family trust.

I once believed our family was a joint effort, so I never fussed over it.

But recently, I realized Caleb wasn't just using the money for necessities. He bought sports cars and luxury watches. Worse, he frequently used this money to buy gifts for Brittany.

From a multi-million-dollar penthouse to a Porsche worth hundreds of thousands, it was all paid for with our shared assets.

Yet for all these years, my clothes were always from last season, and it never occurred to him to buy me anything new. The gifts he gave me were always just roses from the flower shop downstairs from the company.

When I confronted him, his excuse was always the same: as CEO, his image was everything, and by extension, those around him couldn't look cheap.