The Neglected Wife's Bitter Awakening

The heavy oak front door of Red Leaf Manor clicked open. Kahlil stepped into the foyer. The muscles in his neck were tight, a dull ache throbbing at the base of his skull from a twelve-hour workday.

He walked straight into the dining room. He stopped. His eyes immediately went to the head of the table. The chair was empty. Bianca was not there.

Instead, the table was set perfectly. Steam rose from plates of roasted meat and seasoned vegetables. Cassandra sat quietly at the side, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

Kahlil's jaw clenched. He looked from the empty chair to Cassandra. "Where is Bianca?" His voice was flat, carrying the usual cold distance he reserved for this house.

Cassandra lowered her chin. Her fingers drifted up to touch her collarbone, a picture of fragile hesitation. "Sister Bianca... she was in the kitchen earlier, but she seemed very frustrated. She left before I could ask."

She paused, taking a shallow breath. "I saw her struggling, so I made this instead. I hope you don't mind."

Kahlil pulled out his chair and sat down. He picked up his fork. He took a bite. The food was good. It was exactly the way he liked it.

But his stomach twisted with irritation. Bianca cooking? The image didn't fit. She was a Sinclair. She barely knew how to operate the coffee machine.

Cassandra watched his face carefully. "She seemed upset. Maybe about the family matters?"

Kahlil's hand froze. The fork hovered over his plate. The words 'family matters' hit him like a physical blow, reminding him of the Sinclair family's constant pressure and the suffocating marriage trap. His eyes darkened.

He dropped the fork. It clattered loudly against the porcelain plate. He reached for his water glass, his thumb rubbing hard against the condensation on the rim. "She didn't say where she went?"

Cassandra shook her head. Her eyes were wide and innocent. "No. She just left. I was worried, but..."

Kahlil let out a harsh breath. A hot wave of annoyance washed over his chest. Bianca was always like this. Selfish. Unpredictable. Impossible to control.

He stood up so fast his chair scraped violently against the floor. He didn't take another bite. He walked out of the dining room, his heavy footsteps echoing down the hallway, vibrating with suppressed anger.

Cassandra sat alone at the table. She stared at his half-empty plate. The corners of mouth twitched upward into a slow, satisfied smile.

Upstairs, Bianca stood in her bedroom. She ripped the flour-stained shirt over her head and threw it hard into the laundry basket. Her skin was hot, her chest rising and falling with jagged breaths.

Mrs. Gable held out a black silk slip dress. "Madam, where are you going at this hour?"

Bianca snatched the dress. Her voice was thick and tight. "Out. I need a drink. Or ten."

Mrs. Gable wrung her hands. "Please be careful. And Mr. Montgomery... he's home."

Bianca's fingers stopped pulling the zipper. A sharp pain shot through her chest. She let out a dry, bitter laugh. "Good for him. Let him enjoy Cassandra's little performance."

She pulled the dress into place. She sat at her vanity, applying dark eyeliner with aggressive, sharp strokes. She pulled her hair up into a messy twist. It felt like putting on armor.

She grabbed her clutch and walked out of the bedroom. She marched down the stairs. As she passed the dining room, she glanced inside. The lights were dim. Kahlil was gone. A maid was clearing the plates.

A heavy, suffocating weight pressed down on her lungs. She swallowed hard, forcing her legs to move faster toward the garage.

Frank, the driver, stood by the black SUV. He quickly opened the back door. "Where to, Madam?"

Bianca slid onto the leather seat. "The Elysium Club."

The car pulled out of the driveway, merging into the dark night. Bianca leaned her head against the cold glass of the window. She closed her eyes. The neon streetlights flashed across her face in rapid, blinding bursts.

Her stomach churned. She thought of Cassandra's fake smile in the kitchen. She thought of Kahlil sitting at that table, eating Cassandra's food, probably relieved his wife wasn't there to ruin his evening.

Her fingernails dug deep into the leather of her clutch. Her throat burned. She needed the burn of alcohol. She needed to feel something other than this crushing, humiliating rejection.