Chapter 2

Collin' s hurried footsteps faded down the hallway, swallowed by the luxurious silence of the St. Regis. I could still hear his muffled, intimate whispers with Brittnie, a ghost of their conversation echoing in the opulent suite. Each soft word was a fresh cut, twisting the knife already plunged deep into my heart.

"Grover," I said, my voice surprisingly steady, considering the earthquake inside me. My gaze was fixed on the associate, who was still fiddling with his tablet, looking increasingly uncomfortable. "Who is Brittnie Harper?"

Grover jumped, his usually ruddy face paling. He avoided my eyes, stammering, "Mrs. Woods... I... I'm not sure what you mean." His forced ignorance was an insult.

"Don't play coy, Grover," I said, my tone sharper than I intended. "The woman on Collin's call. The one he calls 'baby' and promises promotions to. Who is she?"

His gaze darted to the door, then back to me. He licked his lips. "She's... a junior analyst, Mrs. Woods. New hire. Very ambitious." He paused, then added, as if it were a casual addendum, "She's been... close with Mr. Woods for a few months now. He's been grooming her, you know, for a key position."

Grooming her. The word hung in the air, thick with unspoken implications. A junior analyst. A new hire. Collin' s latest plaything, wrapped in the guise of career advancement. The irony was a bitter taste in my mouth. He had dismissed my own ambitions, my desire to contribute beyond the role of "wife," with a casual wave of his hand. Now he was "grooming" this... Brittnie.

So, this was it. The pieces clicked into place with horrifying clarity. His late nights at the office, the sudden "business trips," the growing emotional distance. It wasn't just stress from work, it was a carefully constructed facade, a slow-motion dismantling of our life together. He wasn't just having an affair; he was building a new life with someone else, right under my nose, planning to cast me aside when the time was right. His cruelty wasn't impulsive; it was calculated.

My eyes swept the room, taking in the decadent decor, the expensive art, the breathtaking city view. This wasn't just a hotel suite; it was a cage, gilded and luxurious, but a cage nonetheless. And he had just handed the key to another woman.

A soft knock interrupted my thoughts. The door opened again, revealing a young woman, barely out of her teens, her eyes wide and nervously glancing around. She was dressed in a short, tight cocktail dress, clutching a small, designer handbag. She looked terrified. The real "cargo."

"Here," I said, my voice low and firm. I pulled a wad of cash from my own clutch, more than enough to cover her evening, and pressed it into her hand. "Take this. And leave. Now. Don't look back."

Her eyes widened further, a mixture of shock and gratitude. "But... Mr. Woods..."

Grover, ever the nervous enabler, stepped forward. "Mrs. Woods, what are you doing? Mr. Salazar will be here any minute! Mr. Woods will be furious!" His voice was a panicked hiss.

I leveled a stare at him that silenced him instantly. "If Mr. Woods wanted her here, he shouldn't have dispatched his wife to handle his dirty work," I said, my voice dripping with icy contempt. "He told me to be 'accommodating,' didn't he? To 'play my part.' Well, my part is to secure this deal for him. And I'll do it my way."

My mind was racing. Collin had given me a role, a degrading one, but a role nonetheless. He expected me to be a pawn. But pawns, sometimes, could become queens. He wanted me to be a "personal service" for Eli Salazar, the rival billionaire. He wanted me to secure his hostile takeover. He was so arrogant, so blind in his ambition, that he didn't even recognize his own wife as the commodity he was trading.

"Grover," I commanded, my voice now calm, authoritative. "The contract. The one Collin signed for this 'personal service.' Bring it to me."

Grover hesitated, his face a contorted mess of fear and confusion. He knew Collin would flay him alive if he disobeyed, but my sudden, uncharacteristic steel must have been even more frightening. Slowly, reluctantly, he pulled a sleek tablet from his briefcase and navigated to a document. He offered it to me, his hand trembling slightly.

I snatched the tablet. My eyes scanned the digital document, the legalese blurring at first, then sharpening into focus. It was a "Consulting and Personal Services Agreement," ridiculously vague yet legally binding. My blood ran cold as I saw the clauses detailing the "services" expected, the "compensation" promised to the service provider, and the "bonuses" tied to the successful completion of the hostile takeover.

And then I saw it. The financial incentives. A percentage of the acquisition if the deal went through. A significant sum, enough to make even Collin's eyes water.

A cruel memory flashed in my mind. Just a few months ago, I had cautiously approached Collin, suggesting I put my business degree to use, that I had ideas for expanding his charitable foundation, perhaps even investing in a small venture of my own.

"Elena," he had scoffed, barely looking up from his phone, "you have no head for business. Stick to what you're good at. Decorating, entertaining. Leave the real money-making to me." He had dismissed me, belittled my intelligence, confined me to the golden cage of "corporate wife."

And now, here it was. The "real money-making opportunity," presented to me as a high-class escort. But this time, he was paying for my "services," unknowingly.

My fingers trembled, but my resolve hardened. Collin wanted me to be a weapon in his game. Fine. I would be his weapon. But when the dust settled, it would be his empire that lay in ruins, and my hand holding the detonator.

I scrolled to the bottom of the document. A clean, blank space for the service provider's signature. I saw a digital pen lying on the table. My heart pounded a frantic rhythm against my ribs. This was it. The point of no return.

I picked up the pen. My finger hovered over the screen. One signature. One act of submission that would become my ultimate act of rebellion. The risk was immense, the consequences unknown. But the alternative – to remain Collin' s disposable asset, to be humiliated and discarded – was far worse.

My hand still trembled, but my gaze was steady. I would not just play along. I would seize control. This was no longer about saving my marriage. This was about reclaiming my life.

With a deep, shaky breath, I signed. The digital ink flowed, bold and unyielding. My name: Elena Fuentes.

The fight, I knew, had just begun.