Chapter 3

I remember those early days with Dax, after the hurried wedding, as a blur of manufactured happiness. I was his wife, but in title only, it sometimes felt. He was building his empire, and I was, by his own design, his constant, supportive presence. I was always at the office, dropping off his favorite coffee, organizing meetings, playing the part of the devoted corporate wife. He never introduced me as "Alysa Roth, my wife." It was always "Alysa," with a possessive arm around my waist, a silent claim. And I accepted it, eager for any sign of his affection.

He rarely contradicted me in public. He gave me unprecedented control over his company's internal affairs, including hiring. He said he trusted my judgment completely. I revelled in it, believing it a testament to our bond. Now I know it was merely handing me the rope to tie myself.

One afternoon, he called me into his office, a strange glint in his eyes. He needed a new executive assistant, he said. Someone efficient, discreet, and... he paused, his gaze distant, "someone who understands the sacrifices it takes to build something from nothing." His instructions were vague, yet specific in their emotional undertone.

I posted the job ad. Applications flooded in. Most were impressive, degrees from Ivy Leagues, years of experience. Then I saw hers: Charley Hood. Her resume was unremarkable, just a state college degree, a string of low-level administrative jobs. But her hometown, a tiny, struggling mining town, resonated with the narrative Dax had spun about his own origins.

And then I saw her photograph. My breath caught. The high cheekbones, the intense, almost haunted eyes, the way her hair framed her face. It was an uncanny resemblance to the faded photograph Dax carried of his deceased mother. The woman he had grieved so deeply, the woman he said was his only true family.

My heart, ever so foolishly, swelled with a misplaced sense of understanding. "This is it," I thought. "This is what Dax needs. Someone who reminds him of his roots, of his mother. Someone who can ground him, remind him of what he' s fighting for." I imagined him finding comfort in her presence, a connection to the mother he lost so young. I saw it as a gift, a way to heal a wound I couldn't touch.

I hired her on the spot. Without a second interview. Without checking references thoroughly. I bypassed all the highly qualified candidates, driven by a sentimental intuition that I now know was profoundly misguided.

When I introduced Charley to Dax, his reaction was immediate and startling. He gasped, his face paling, then flushing. His eyes, usually so controlled, widened with a mixture of shock and fervent recognition. He was visibly shaken, his hand gripping the edge of his desk so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"Charley, this is Alysa, my wife," I said, beaming, proud of my intuition. "Alysa, this is Charley, your new executive assistant."

Dax didn't even acknowledge me. His eyes were fixed on Charley, a profound, almost reverent look in them. Tears welled in his eyes. "You... you look just like her," he whispered, his voice cracking.

Charley, a picture of demure humility, simply lowered her gaze, a faint blush on her high cheekbones. "I'm sorry, sir. I don't understand."

"My mother," Dax managed, his voice thick with emotion. "You look just like my mother."

I watched, a pang of sympathy mixed with a strange unease. I put my hand on Dax's arm. "Oh, darling," I murmured, "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

He turned to me then, those blue eyes still glistening. He pulled me into a fierce hug. "Thank you, Alysa," he whispered into my hair. "Thank you. This... this means more to me than you could ever know."

I felt a rush of warmth, a glow of having done something truly meaningful. My silly heart believed I had just given him a piece of his lost past. I had no idea I had just handed him the key to unlock my future destruction.

I encouraged their interactions, believing I was fostering a healthy work environment. I invited Charley to our home, to our dinner parties. I saw the way Dax's eyes softened when he spoke to her, the way she hung on his every word. I attributed it to respect, to a surrogate maternal connection he yearned for. I even joked about it, "Charley is like your office therapist, isn't she, darling?"

He would laugh, a warm, genuine laugh that always reassured me. "More than that, Alysa. She's a godsend."

I never thought to question it. Not then. Not when I was so blinded by my own love, my own misguided kindness. I thought I was helping him. I thought I was being a good wife, a supportive partner.

I was such a fool. Such a naive, trusting fool. I had walked right into the spider's web, lured by the illusion of his gratitude, his need. I had placed the knife in his hand, and then watched, smiling, as he prepared to plunge it into my back.

The irony of it all still twisted a knot in my stomach. I, Alysa Bailey, the woman who had everything, had meticulously engineered my own downfall. I had gifted my husband his mistress, wrapped in the comforting guise of his lost mother. I had nurtured the snake in my own home, believing it was a dove. And I had done it all with a heart full of love, so certain I was building our future.

My own generosity, my own empathy, had become the weapon against me. I had loved him so completely that I had become blind to his true nature. I had curated the perfect environment for my own betrayal, and then I had paid the ultimate price for it.