His Unwanted Wife: The Hidden Tech Genius

Cassidy sat at the far end of the huge mahogany dining table, her gaze fixed on the old-fashioned grandfather clock against the wall.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

The minute hand clicked to its final position. It was exactly 9 PM.

Cassidy slowly lowered her gaze to the dining table. A plate of Wellington steak sat before her.

But the golden pastry had long since become soggy, and the expensive meat inside had completely cooled down.

She picked up her phone from the table. A long time had passed since he was supposed to return.

She finally couldn't resist and dialed Cornelius's private number.

The phone rang. Once. Twice. Three times. Four times. Five times.

No one answered; only a cold female voice responded.

Cassidy took a deep, heavy breath. The air in her lungs felt like shards of glass. She opened her texting app and typed a message asking him when he would be home.

Almost immediately, the screen lit up. It wasn't Cornelius. It was a reply from his executive assistant.

"Mrs. Lambert, the president is currently in an extremely important business meeting and cannot be disturbed. He will not be home for dinner tonight."

Cassidy stared at the glowing screen. The last, pitiful spark of hope in her heart had been extinguished.

She stood up.

The wooden legs of the dining chair scraped violently against the polished white marble floor, the piercing sound echoing like a scream in the empty penthouse.

It was like a desperate roar from the depths of her heart.

Without a word, Cassidy picked up the plate of cold Wellington steak.

Without the slightest hesitation, she tilted the plate over the edge of the stainless steel trash can, watching the expensive food slide into the garbage with a wet, dull thud.

The silence in the apartment made her feel increasingly empty and fearful.

She strode to the entrance, grabbed her plain beige trench coat, and wrapped it tightly over the thin, expensive silk slip dress she had specially worn for him.

She had originally planned to have a romantic date with him tonight.

As Cassidy pushed open the heavy door and stepped out of the building, the biting autumn wind of Manhattan howled down Fifth Avenue, fiercely cutting through the collar of her trench coat.

She pulled her clothes tighter in front of her chest and began to walk.

An entertainment gossip news article popped up on my phone.

A high-end restaurant, a cozy place.

Cassidy froze.

Her pupils contracted sharply, and she caught her breath in her throat.

The photo shows Cornelius.

The man who should have been trapped in an important business meeting from which he couldn't escape.

Sitting next to him was their seven-year-old son, Benny. The boy was laughing and happily devouring a huge chocolate sundae.

Sitting directly opposite Cornelius was Harley Moss, his childhood sweetheart.

Almost immediately, she called a car and went to the Michelin-starred restaurant in the photo.

She didn't believe it; she wanted to see it with her own eyes!

It wasn't until she arrived at the restaurant and saw that heartwarming scene through the glass window that she truly witnessed it.

She completely broke down. The stark contrast between the biting cold wind outside and the warm, golden light emanating from the restaurant made her stomach churn.

Harley leaned forward, her expression sickeningly gentle, and softly wiped a bit of chocolate sauce from the corner of Benny's mouth with a clean white napkin.

Cornelius looked at them. A faint, enigmatic smile played on his lips, a smile that didn't quite reach his cold eyes.

That was a smile Cassidy hadn't seen in seven years.

The restaurant's side door was ajar a few inches to allow for ventilation. Benedictine's clear, high-pitched voice drifted into the cold air, drowning out the city's hum.

"Mom is so boring," Benny said loudly, swinging his leg. "I wish Aunt Harley was my real mom."

Cassidy's heart stopped. It felt like an invisible, enormous hand reached into her chest and crushed her heart into a bloody, gooey mess.

Cornelius did not reprimand her. He did not defend his wife.

Instead, his smile deepened, and he reached out to affectionately ruffle Benny's hair, completely condoning the cruel comment.

A pure, glacial chill shot straight from the soles of Cassidy's feet to his brain.

She slowly and unsteadily took a step back, letting the deep shadows of the Manhattan street corner completely engulf her.

Cassidy turned away, forcing herself to hold back her tears.

She walked to the curb, raised a trembling hand, and waved down a yellow taxi that was speeding along the avenue.

She slid into the back seat. The worn leather clung to her thighs, feeling cold.

She then mechanically gave the driver the address of the penthouse apartment.

Outside the window, the city's neon lights blurred into streaks of color. Cassidy stared at her reflection in the glass. Her face was deathly pale, her eyes vacant.

She thought of the labs at MIT. She thought of the prestigious research position she had given up seven years ago to marry a man who didn't love her.

She recalled how she had systematically smoothed out all the rough edges of her personality and hidden her talents, all to fit into the suffocating pattern of the Lambert family wives.

A sudden, intense wave of nausea washed over me.

Cassidy covered her mouth, her stomach cramping, and she struggled to suppress the urge to vomit right there in the taxi.

The car stopped in front of the luxury high-rise apartment building. She awkwardly handed the driver a banknote, then got out and stepped onto the sidewalk. Her legs felt like lead, and she wobbled as she passed through the revolving doors.

The elevator doors slowly opened on the first floor. Cassidy took a deep, trembling breath, forced herself to straighten her back, and stepped inside.

As she entered the deathly silent penthouse, she went straight to the huge glass coffee table in the center of the living room.

In the very center was a huge bouquet of ninety-nine flawless red roses.

This was an anniversary gift. His assistant orders it every year, like clockwork. Completely devoid of thought. Completely cold.

Cassidy walked over and grabbed the thick, expensive wrapping paper that held the flower stem.

A sharp, thick thorn pierced through the paper and embedded itself deeply in her index finger. A bead of bright red blood immediately welled up.

She felt nothing. The physical pain was nothing compared to the rotting sensation in her chest.

Cassidy clenched her fists, ignoring the blood flowing out, and yanked the huge bouquet of flowers out of the crystal vase.

She strode into the kitchen and stuffed the expensive, perfect roses directly into the oversized trash can.

The red petals fell one by one, scattering on the spotless white marble floor, looking like the shattered and wasted remains of her youth over the past seven years.

Cassidy turned and went into the master bedroom. She stood in front of the dressing mirror, gazing at the stranger in it.

She reached behind her neck and untied the heavy diamond necklace Cornelius had given her the previous year.

Then he casually tossed it into the top drawer. The diamond struck the wood with a sharp, disdainful click.

She walked into the spacious walk-in closet, past rows of designer gowns, and pulled an old, worn black suitcase from the bottom shelf.

She packed only the most essential items: a few pairs of jeans, a few plain sweaters, and an old, highly encrypted laptop hidden under her clothes.

She did not touch any item bearing the unseen label of the Lambert family.

The moment she zipped up her suitcase, she took out her phone and dialed her best friend Kori's number.

The call connected, and Kori's sleepy, hoarse voice came through, complaining that it was too early.

"I'm getting a divorce," Cassidy said. Her voice was eerily calm.

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone. Then, Kori fully woke up.

"What did you say?" Kori asked.

"I'm packing," Cassidy replied, staring at the empty space in the walk-in closet. "I'm moving out tonight."

Why so suddenly?

"He doesn't love me at all. He treats me like an ornament, an object! I don't want to be a vase anymore!"

"Then wait for me!" Kori commanded, her voice sharp and professional. "I'll contact the most ruthless divorce lawyers in New York right now. I'll text you."

Cassidy hung up the phone. She grabbed the handle of her black briefcase and walked out of the master bedroom without looking back.

Cassidy pushed open the heavy revolving door of the luxury apartment building, the wheels of her suitcase making a sharp clattering sound on the sidewalk.

She hailed a taxi to Brooklyn.

A black sedan was parked on the side of the road. She lifted the heavy suitcase into the trunk herself, slammed it shut, and then climbed into the back seat.

As the car crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, Cassidy gazed out the window. The glittering, lavish Manhattan skyline-her "canary cage" for seven years-shrank rapidly in the rearview mirror.

Forty minutes later, the car stopped in front of an old, weathered red-brick industrial building.

Cassidy dragged her suitcase through the dimly lit, narrow corridor until she reached the heavy metal door at the far end of the top floor.

She reached deep into her trench coat pocket and pulled out a slightly rusty brass key.

She inserted the key into the lock. The lock turned with a heavy, satisfying click. She pushed open the door.

She pressed the switch on the wall. Rows of warm, industrial-style track lights flickered on, illuminating the vast space.

It was a spacious private studio. The air was filled with a reassuring scent of dusty raw fabric, machine oil, and aged pine.

In the center of the room stood several large mannequins, surrounded by high-end sewing machines and a drafting table covered with fabric samples.

Cassidy went straight to a heavy steel safe fixed in the corner of the room. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, typing in a long string of complex numbers by muscle memory.

The safe beeped, and the heavy door popped open. She carefully reached inside and pulled out a sealed, waterproof document bag.

She untied the rope sealing the opening and poured the contents onto the table.

A brand-new, framed certificate slid out. It was her Ph.D. degree in Computer Science from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

Beneath the degree certificate lay a stack of original, limited-edition haute couture design sketches. Each page bore a prominent, capitalized signature in the bottom right corner: Indigo.

She traced the flowing, dynamic lines of the dress design with her fingertips. The lifeless, empty look in her eyes slowly sharpened, replaced by a cold yet clear clarity.

Cassidy walked to the wooden workbench and opened the old, broken laptop she had brought from her penthouse apartment.

The screen lit up. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, bypassing security protocols and logging directly into the internal OA system of the commercial bank where she had a "job".

She opened a new email window and began drafting a resignation letter.

She pounded the keyboard. Each keystroke was a physical blow, severing yet another connection to her miserable, submissive life.

She didn't hesitate. She clicked send and immediately quit the useless tech support job that Cornelius had arranged for her to keep her busy and harmless.

She slammed her laptop shut. She turned and looked at a faded photograph pinned to the brick wall.

That's a photo of her when she was young, standing next to legendary haute couture designer Clemma Page. Her great-aunt.

Cassidy took out her phone and swiped to a number she hadn't dialed in five years.

She opened her text message and typed: "Aunt Klema. I've thought it through. I'm ready to come back."

Seven years ago, she stubbornly refused her aunt's help, determined to prove she could build the perfect life her own way. Now, those naive fantasies have been stripped away, and she finally understands that some battles cannot be fought alone.

She stared at the glowing text on the screen for a full three seconds. Then, she pressed send.

The sharp "whoosh" sound of the message being sent echoed clearly in the quiet, empty studio.

Cassidy let out a long, trembling breath. For the first time in seven years, the heavy burden that had been weighing on her chest was gone.

She walked to the small, simple single bed in the corner of the studio, and lay down dressed.

Breathing in the familiar scents of raw fabric and wood, she closed her eyes and finally felt completely safe.