Chapter Seven – The Wife's Counterstrike
The whispers were already waiting for me when I walked in.
You could always tell when gossip had teeth — it traveled different. It lingered longer, carried with careful tones and eyes darting like they might cut themselves on the truth. The women near the reception desk paused mid-sentence as soon as I passed, their smiles tight, their voices dipping to a murmur.
"Did you see—"
"She came back again yesterday."
"Something's going on, I swear."
They didn't have to say names. Everyone knew who "she" was. And they knew who I was.
I straightened my shoulders and kept moving, letting my heels sing across the marble floor. If they wanted a show, they were going to get one.
By the time I settled at my desk, I already had my lipstick reapplied — a deeper red than yesterday. Today, I wasn't just prepared for Julian. I was prepared for her.
Cassandra Archer didn't keep me waiting.
She walked in just before noon, no warning, no hesitation, her heels clicking with the confidence of someone who had practiced the performance of "perfect wife" her entire life. She looked sharper than before — a sleek black dress, gold bangles that caught the light, her hair swept up to show off the diamond studs at her ears.
This wasn't a casual visit. This was a declaration of war.
"Hello again," she said, her voice warm enough to fool strangers, but her eyes locked on me like daggers. "Still holding everything together, I see."
"Always," I answered sweetly, not giving her the satisfaction of a flinch. "It's what I do best."
A few heads lifted from behind cubicles. Phones stopped clicking. Even Elaine, perched nearby with her notepad, froze halfway through scribbling nothing important.
Cassandra smiled, tilting her head just so, and set down the oversized bag she carried. "I brought some things for the charity drive." She snapped her fingers and an assistant she'd dragged along set a box on the counter. Designer clothes, pristine heels, perfumes still sealed. More of a performance than generosity.
"Thought it would inspire the staff to give a little too," she added, her voice loud enough to carry.
"Oh, inspiring's always good," I said, meeting her gaze without blinking. "Of course, some of us do it just by walking into a room."
Tasha, who'd appeared like clockwork by the copier, bit down on her lip to keep from laughing.
Cassandra's eyes flickered, but her smile never broke. She glided past my desk like she owned not just the office, but the ground it sat on. And then, with deliberate poise, she pushed open Julian's office door without knocking.
I felt my pulse jump.
Through the slatted blinds, I caught glimpses — Cassandra leaning over his desk, brushing imaginary lint from his shoulder, laughing at something he hadn't said. Her fingers tugged lightly at his loosened tie. The picture was perfect: the attentive wife and the distracted husband.
And she wanted me to see every second of it.
Julian's body language told a different story. His shoulders stiff, his jaw tight, the way he leaned back in his chair as though he needed distance even while she leaned closer. He wasn't enjoying the show, but he wasn't stopping it either.
For anyone else, it might've been crushing. Proof that the wife had the upper hand, that the fantasy of the "other woman" ended here. But I didn't see defeat.
I saw confirmation.
If Cassandra felt the need to parade her marriage in the middle of the workday, it meant she was already afraid. Afraid of whispers. Afraid of me.
She emerged ten minutes later, her lipstick still flawless, her hair still smooth, but the tension at the corners of her mouth betraying her.
"Such a pleasure seeing you again," she said to me as she passed. "Julian and I were just laughing about how many secretaries have come and gone over the years. It takes a certain… resilience to last here, don't you think?"
The older women from accounting smirked like it was scripture. Elaine giggled nervously and fumbled her pen.
I smiled with all the sweetness I could muster. "Resilience," I echoed. "Yes, I'd say I have more than enough of that." I let my gaze flick deliberately over her pristine figure. "And more staying power than some people give me credit for."
Her eyes narrowed just for a second before she delivered her parting shot.
"The help comes and goes, dear. Wives… endure."
She brushed past me, her perfume clouding the air like smoke after gunfire.
I didn't move. I didn't shrink. I just let her walk away.
When she reached the elevator, she glanced back once — expecting to see me small, wounded, maybe reconsidering my choices.
Instead, she saw me smiling.
Because if Cassandra Archer had to come down here in her diamonds and play defense, it meant only one thing.
I was winning.
Later, Tasha cornered me by the vending machine, her eyes wide. "Girl, did you see the way she was touching his tie? I almost threw my coffee."
"She wanted me to see it," I said calmly, tearing open a granola bar. "She wanted everyone to see it. That was the whole point."
"And you just sat there looking like a damn queen." Tasha shook her head, half in awe. "I don't know how you keep that cool, Amira. I would've snapped back, I swear."
I chewed slowly, savoring the taste of victory more than the bar. "Why would I? If she's showing off, it's because she's already insecure. If she has to perform, it means I'm in her head."
Tasha let out a low whistle. "You're dangerous."
I smiled faintly. "She hasn't seen dangerous yet."
By the time I packed up for the day, the office was still buzzing. Elaine muttered something about ordering blinds again, Margaret's crew was whispering in the corner, and the rest of the floor was alive with speculation.
I slipped my bag over my shoulder, paused by the glass of Julian's office, and caught him staring at the paperwork on his desk like it had betrayed him.
I almost knocked. Almost.
But no.
Let him think. Let him stew. Let Cassandra replay my smile in her head tonight and wonder what it meant.
This was only the beginning.