Good Wives Finish Last: Revenge of the Billionaire's Ex Wife

"And that's how you get the petals to curl just right," I said, twisting the piping bag in a slow, practiced motion until the frosting bloomed into a delicate pink rose. I held the cupcake up to the camera, wearing the same practiced smile I used every single morning. "Love and patience, darlings. Every recipe is better when you have both."

Pink hearts started flooding the livestream almost instantly.

You're glowing today, Saint!

I wish I had your life.

You always look so happy.

I kept the smile plastered on my face as I reached for the next cupcake.

If happiness could actually be bought, maybe I would've found it by now.

The truth didn't look anything like the pretty, framed kitchen behind me. The truth looked like the 4:00 AM alarm that dragged me out of bed, the thick layers of concealer under my eyes, and the double shot of espresso sitting cold by the mixer because I'd forgotten to drink it. It looked like pretending my marriage was still a thing while strangers praised me for having the perfect family.

The camera didn't show any of that.

"Mommy!"

Ares burst into the room in his Spider-Man pajamas and mismatched socks, nearly slamming into the kitchen island.

"Hudson's dad bought him Japanese wagyu for breakfast!" He leaned against the marble counter, looking up at me expectantly. "Can I have that tomorrow?"

I gave a soft, airy laugh for the audience. "We talked about this, remember? Wagyu is a special treat. I can make you something even better."

His shoulders slumped. "You always say that."

Before I could even think of an answer, he wandered off toward the living room, already distracted.

The comments went wild.

Kids are so honest.

He's adorable.

Saint is such a patient mother.

Patient.

People loved using that word for me. Sometimes I wondered if "patient" was just a polite way of saying I'd forgotten how to complain.

"Mom!"

Aria hurried in next, shoving her tablet toward my face. "Look! Aunt Iris finally got her Kelly bag."

I blinked.

"It only took her three days," she said, sounding genuinely offended. "I've been waiting two whole months."

I stared at my nine-year-old daughter, trying to figure out how we'd ended up having a conversation about Hermès waiting lists before she'd even finished elementary school.

"Sweetheart," I said carefully, "those bags are incredibly expensive."

"I know."

"And they aren't really something children need."

She frowned, like I'd just said something completely ridiculous. "Then why does Aunt Iris have one?"

Because she was twenty-four, single, spoiled rotten, and somehow still everyone's favorite.

Instead of saying that, I smiled for the viewers. "Adults and children have different priorities."

"You always have an excuse," she sighed dramatically and marched away.

The chat filled with laughing emojis. This family is hilarious.

I spread another layer of frosting. Steady hands. Even breathing. Don't let anyone see the cracks.

"Erina."

My mother-in-law never had to raise her voice to get my attention.

Cassandra Costas stepped into the kitchen looking as flawless as ever in a cream suit that probably cost more than my first apartment. Mikimoto pearls sat against her throat, and the smell of Chanel No. 5 trailed behind her.

Her eyes swept over the kitchen before landing on me. "You're kneeling."

I looked down. I had crouched down to grab a tray from the bottom cabinet. "It's easier this way."

"A Costas wife should never kneel."

She wasn't shouting. She didn't need to.

I stood up immediately, ignoring the ache in my knees. "You're right."

She looked at the ring light. "I still don't understand why you insist on broadcasting our home every morning."

"It's my work."

"No." Her expression didn't budge. "Your work is this family."

The silence stretched between us. The viewers probably thought she was joking; a few comments even mentioned how elegant she looked. Nobody noticed how hard I was gripping the piping bag.

Cassandra adjusted an earring and left as gracefully as she'd arrived, leaving nothing behind but the scent of her perfume.

A minute later, Daphne wandered in wearing tennis clothes, though she never actually played tennis. She didn't even look up from her phone.

"The pool is too cold."

"I'll ask someone to fix the temperature."

"You said that yesterday."

"I forgot."

"You always forget." She finally looked at me. "You really are unreliable sometimes, Rina."

I forced another smile. I hated that nickname. Zayden only called me Rina when he wanted something, and everyone else just copied him because it was easier than remembering what I actually liked.

I was turning back toward the camera when another voice drifted in.

"Good morning, Sister."

Scarlett.

She looked effortlessly beautiful in the way magazines try and fail to copy. Her blonde hair fell over one shoulder, and she was wearing an oversized white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

My eyes stopped there. That shirt was unmistakable. It was Zayden's. I'd bought it for his birthday last year.

Scarlett walked straight to the cooling rack, grabbed a warm bread roll, and tore off a piece. She chewed it thoughtfully, a teasing smile on her lips.

"They taste... a little desperate today."

The livestream exploded. Your sister is so funny! Sibling goals!

I laughed because thousands of people expected me to. "I'll take that as constructive criticism."

She winked at the camera and wandered toward the dining room, still wearing my husband's shirt like it was hers.

I couldn't stop looking at it. Maybe there was an explanation. Maybe she'd spilled coffee on herself. Maybe Zayden had lent it to her because the laundry room was closer than the guest room.

Maybe. The word tasted bitter.

I reached for the ring light. "That's all for today's baking session."

My voice stayed smooth. Professional. Steady.

"Thank you for spending your morning with me. Remember to love fiercely, and I'll see you tomorrow."

The stream ended.

The kitchen went silent, and my smile vanished before the screen even went black. For a few seconds, I just stood there, staring at the blank display. The mixer hummed quietly as it finished its cycle. My coffee was cold. Buttercream was stuck to my fingers.

From down the hallway, I heard Scarlett laughing. It sounded light, comfortable, and completely at home.

"I like staying here," she said. Then another voice-too low for me to recognize-replied.

"This house feels warm," Scarlett continued. "It reminds me of our old home."

Our old home. The one destroyed by the fire.

She had been seven when she lost everything. I remembered carrying her through nightmares, brushing her hair, teaching her how to braid it because she insisted she was a big girl. I remembered the scraped knees and the bedtime stories.

For years, I believed I had become the family she needed. Somewhere along the way, she stopped needing me.

The kids adored her. Probably because she never corrected them. She laughed when they spilled juice; she let them stay up too late. She listened to every little story like it was the most important thing in the world.

I was the one who reminded them to do their homework, brush their teeth, and clean up after themselves. Parents rarely become the favorite. They become the expectation.

I turned toward the sink. Dirty dishes were waiting exactly where I'd left them before the stream. The twins were at the table, whispering and giggling.

It should have been a comforting sound. Instead, all I could think about was the shirt Scarlett was wearing.

I washed a plate slowly, warm soapy water over porcelain. Everything looked normal, but beneath the curated smiles and "perfect" family, something had already broken.

I just hadn't admitted it until now.

A Costas' wife noticed details. Cassandra had repeated that often enough for it to become muscle memory.

Cassandra's voice played on a loop in my head as I straightened a napkin for the twelfth time. Twelve place settings. Crystal polished to a military shine. Beyond the windows, the bay glittered-the kind of expensive, curated life people envy on Instagram.

My phone sat face-down on the counter. No texts. No calls.

Then I heard the sound of footsteps on the marble.

Zayden walked in with damp hair, wearing lounge pants and a T-shirt. He didn't look like a man who had just stepped off an international flight.

"Morning, Saint."

I started to say happy birthday, but the words barely left my lips before he turned away. He smelled like cedar soap, not an airport-a practiced near-miss so smooth it almost felt real. I hadn't actually kissed him; I'd just grazed the air close enough to smell home on his skin.

"Happy birthday," I murmured, stepping back quickly before the lack of contact could even register.

Zayden's eyes skimmed the table-the flowers, the settings, everything I'd spent two weeks obsessing over-before landing right back on his phone. "You've been up early. Looks nice," he said. Six words for a brunch that deserved thirty.

I smiled anyway and offered him coffee. He declined, saying he'd already had some, and took his usual spot at the head of the table.

No one ever explicitly said it was "his" chair, but everyone knew better than to sit there. His thumb scrolled absently over the screen, and for a split second, a ghost of a smile flickered across his face. It was gone before I could even be sure I'd seen it.

Neither of us spoke. The grandfather clock counted the seconds for us. Then the rest of the family finally arrived.

Cassandra came in first, draped in pearls and a cream suit. She stopped immediately by the hydrangeas. "They wilt so quickly," she noted, as if I hadn't been worrying about that since five in the morning.

"I'll have them replaced," I said.

She gave me a slight nod. It wasn't approval, but it was the temporary absence of disapproval.

Daphne followed her, sunglasses perched on her head despite being indoors. "Traffic was absolutely horrible," she complained, which was impressive considering she lived twelve minutes away.

Leonidas trailed in behind her with a gift bag, giving me a tired smile that vanished the second the kids burst through the door. Aria headed straight for the pastries, while Ares nearly took out a dining chair in his rush. Iris already had her phone up, filming everything like she always did.

"Birthday presents!" Aria shouted, finally pulling Zayden's eyes away from his screen.

I stood up and handed him the first gift-a vintage watch from an auction house in Geneva. He'd mentioned it once, years ago. He opened the box, glanced at it, and closed it.

"Nice." He set it aside. He closed the box before I could tell whether he liked it. That hurt more than if he had simply said he hated it.

The second gift was wrapped in navy paper and felt heavier. It was a leather journal embossed with the coordinates of the island where we spent our honeymoon-back when I was still foolish enough to believe in love.

Before Zayden could even open it, Daphne snatched it out of his hands. She flipped through the pages and laughed.

I felt the heat rise in my neck as Cassandra took the journal, looked at it in total silence, and passed it back. "Very traditional," she said. In her world, "traditional" was a polite word for pathetic.

Zayden never even touched it.

I slid the journal back toward me and reached for the third gift-the one he couldn't ignore. I placed the keys to a restored Aston Martin right next to his plate.

His eyebrows lifted slightly. "Nice."

The watch had earned a "nice." So did the Aston Martin.

The relief barely had time to settle before he checked his watch, and my stomach dropped.

"I need to head out. Work," he said, cutting Daphne off before she could protest.

"When will you be back?" Aria whined.

"Later," he said.

I stood up with the rest of the family and watched him kiss Cassandra's cheek, shake Leonidas's hand, and ruffle Ares's hair. Then he stopped in front of me. For one stupid, hopeful second, I thought he might actually lean in.

But no. His lips brushed the air beside my cheek-another practiced near-miss. Publicly affectionate, technically.

"Don't wait up, Saint," he said.

Then he turned and left.

The heavy front door clicked shut, and a dead silence filled the dining room. One by one, the family drifted away until only Iris was left, her phone still raised.

"Please stop," I said quietly.

Her camera dipped for a second, then went right back up to eye level.

Right then, my phone buzzed. It was an unknown number with a single photo.

I opened it. White sheets, a navy headboard, and the corner of a lamp I'd bought three years ago. As the image loaded, it revealed a man's wrist and a woman's bare shoulder.

The caption read: *He hasn't left the penthouse since Wednesday.*

I read it twice.

A second notification popped up before I could even process the first. Another photo.

It loaded slowly. At first, all I saw was a rumpled bedspread. Then the image came into focus, and my breath caught.

A shirt. Gray. Button-down. Familiar.

I knew that shirt. I'd bought it for Zayden two Christmases ago because he complained that all his work clothes looked the same. I remembered removing the tags. I remembered ironing it last month after he'd left it draped over a chair in our bedroom.

It wasn't on him.

The fabric hung loosely off a woman's shoulders, the sleeves rolled back like she'd worn it a hundred times before.

My eyes moved higher.

Scarlett.

I saw muddy knees after she fell off her bicycle. Pink pajamas on the nights she climbed into my bed because thunder terrified her. Her first school recital, clutching my hand so tightly my fingers went numb.

My grip tightened around the phone.

"Everything okay, Mom?"

Iris's voice snapped me back, cutting through the buzzing in my ears.

I looked up at her. She was still holding her phone, camera pointed right at me, as if this was just another morning worth filming. For a split second, I wondered what she saw on her screen. Did I still look like that smiling woman from the livestream, or could she tell I was falling apart?

My eyes drifted back down to the photo.

The gray shirt. The navy headboard. The lamp I'd spent an entire Saturday obsessing over while arguing about paint colors.

There was no denying it.

The valet at the Four Seasons recognized me the second I pulled up.

"Mrs. Costas! Let me take that for-"

"I've got it," I snapped.

My own voice sounded strange to me-hollow, like it was coming from some old, broken place deep in my chest.

The elevator to the private residences required a key card. I had mine. Of course I did. I was the one who had decorated the place. I'd spent three weeks obsessing over the exact shade of white for the walls because Zayden told me he trusted my taste.

He trusted my taste.

As the elevator climbed, the glass walls opened up to Los Angeles. The city looked like a glowing circuit board beneath me, full of millions of people who weren't currently riding ninety floors up to watch their marriage go up in flames.

I should have just turned around. But I didn't.

The ninetieth floor was dead silent. The carpet was so thick it swallowed the sound of my heels, and the recessed lighting gave the whole hallway the sterile, cold feel of a funeral parlor.

I punched in the family override code. Four digits. Our anniversary.

The lock clicked open with a soft, green light.

This is your last chance, a voice whispered in the back of my mind. Just walk away. Save whatever is left of yourself.

Instead, I pushed the door open.

The dining room was the only room with the lights on. Every chandelier was blazing, turning the space into a stage. It was like they wanted to be caught.

And there they were.

They were on the table-the live-edge walnut piece that cost forty thousand dollars because Zayden once told me he liked furniture with "character."

They didn't even hear me come in. Or maybe they just didn't care.

My husband-a man who hadn't touched me in years-was clinging to her with a hunger I didn't recognize.

I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. I just stared.

She was the first one to look up. Her eyes met mine, and then she smiled.

"Hello, Sister." Her voice didn't even shake. "Need a few tips? Because you clearly do."

Something inside me just snapped. There was no sound to it, just a sudden, absolute void.

Zayden didn't even slow down. When he finally looked at me, his eyes were empty. No guilt, no shame. Nothing.

"Get out, Erina."

Three words. That was all I got.

"Zayden..." My voice finally broke. "How could you...?"

"How could I?" He laughed, calmly adjusting his clothes as if the whole scene was completely normal. "You stopped being my wife years ago, Saint. You're just the woman who signs the charity checks and plays the perfect housewife when the cameras are on."

"I love you," I choked out. "I've loved you since-"

"Love." He said the word like it disgusted him. "You love being a Costas. You love the house and the cars and the lifestyle. You don't love me. You love the story."

Scarlett slipped into my Versace robe as she climbed off the table, making no effort to cover herself. Why would she? She'd already won.

"It's nothing personal, Sister." She picked up a strawberry from the counter and took a slow bite. "You're just exhausting. Always performing. Always trying so hard."

She waved a hand carelessly in my direction. "Zayden needs someone who doesn't have to try."

The room tilted. I had to lean against the doorframe to keep from collapsing.

"Security."

Zayden never had to yell. He didn't need to.

Two guards appeared almost instantly. I wondered how long they'd been standing there. Had they been waiting? Had he planned this whole thing?

"Yes, Mr. Costas?"

"Escort Mrs. Costas out. She's trespassing."

"I am your wife!"

"You're nothing."

He was already looking back at his phone, bored of me. "You were a project. A pretty UCLA girl who needed saving. I saved you. I gave you everything. And this is how you thank me? By throwing a hysterical scene?"

The guards took my arms. They weren't rough-they didn't need to be-but they were firm. Professional. Like they'd done this a hundred times before.

"Zayden, please..." Mascara was blurring my vision. "Please... we can fix this..."

"There's nothing to fix." He turned away. "You were broken when I found you. I just got tired of pretending I could put you back together."

They dragged me toward the elevator. I screamed his name, my voice echoing off the marble walls and the carpet I had spent weeks picking out.

As the doors began to slide shut, Scarlett lifted her hand and blew me a kiss through the gap.

The little girl whose hair I used to braid. The little girl I held after every nightmare. The little girl I loved like she was my own.

The doors sealed shut.

As the elevator descended ninety floors, Los Angeles rose up to meet me. The mirrors reflected my ruin from every angle. Saint Erina stared back at me six different times, and in every reflection, I watched her die.

I stepped back into the hotel lobby with mascara streaming down my cheeks and a smile that tasted like blood.

Let them watch me fall.