Chapter 5: The Mask I Wear
For twelve days, I was the perfect wife.
I cooked Marcus's favorite meals—medium-rare steak, roasted vegetables, red wine that cost more than most people's rent. I laughed at his jokes. I kissed him goodbye each morning with a smile so sweet it could rot teeth.
And every night, after he fell asleep, I photographed documents from his study, forwarded encrypted messages to Dante's team, and mapped out every connection Marcus had to the Volkov Syndicate.
It was the performance of a lifetime. And I was terrifyingly good at it.
"You seem different lately," Marcus said one evening, watching me over dinner. His eyes were calculating, assessing. The way he looked at a business deal.
My heart stuttered, but my face stayed serene. "Different how?"
"Happier." He reached across the table and took my hand. "I like it."
I smiled, slow and warm. "Maybe I just finally feel... settled."
He squeezed my fingers. "Good. That's good, sweetheart."
Under the table, my other hand was clenched so tight my nails drew blood from my palm.
Five more days.
Vivian and I met three times that week—venue scouting, florist consultations, seating arrangements. She chattered endlessly, completely at ease, convinced I was too dim to notice the way she texted Marcus when she thought I wasn't looking.
I noticed everything.
"Sera," she said over coffee, stirring sugar into her latte with a manicured nail, "have you thought about what you'll wear to the gala?"
"Not yet. Why?"
She leaned in conspiratorially. "I found this incredible dress—champagne gold, backless, slit up to here." She gestured at her thigh. "But it might be too much for me. Want it?"
In my last life, she gave me that dress. It was beautiful—and it was also designed to make me look desperate, too sexy, too attention-seeking. She'd planted the seed, then whispered to the other guests that I was "clearly losing it" and "trying too hard."
"You should wear it, Viv," I said sweetly. "You'd look stunning."
Surprise flickered across her face. She hadn't expected me to refuse. "Oh... are you sure?"
"Absolutely. I've already picked something out."
What I'd actually picked out was an elegant black gown—the kind that said power, not desperation. The kind that photographed well for news coverage.
Because there would be cameras at this gala. Dante had made sure of it.
Two days before the event, Dante called me on the secure phone.
"We have a problem."
My stomach dropped. "What kind of problem?"
"Marcus moved up a meeting. He's transferring the remaining assets tomorrow—not after the gala. If those funds leave the country, we lose our leverage."
I paced my bedroom, thinking fast. "What do you need?"
"His authorization code. The one he uses for international wire transfers. Sixteen digits. He changes it weekly."
I knew where he kept it. A leather-bound notebook in his bedside table. He thought it was safe because he slept beside it every night.
"I'll get it tonight," I said.
Dante paused. When he spoke again, his voice was different. Lower. Careful.
"Sera. If he catches you—"
"He won't."
"If he does," Dante pressed, "you run. Straight to me. Don't try to explain, don't try to talk your way out. You run."
The intensity in his voice made my breath catch. This wasn't just business to him. Not anymore.
"I'll be fine," I whispered. And I meant it.
That night, I waited until Marcus's breathing evened out. 2 AM. The room was dark, the only sound the ticking of the clock on the mantel.
I slid out of bed, silent as a ghost. Three steps to his nightstand. The drawer opened without a sound—I'd oiled the hinges days ago.
The notebook was right where it always was. I flipped to the last page, photographed the code with my phone's screen dimmed to its lowest setting, and slid it back.
My heart was hammering so hard I was sure it would wake him.
I turned to go back to bed—
And froze.
Marcus's eyes were open. Staring at me in the dark.
"Sweetheart?" His voice was thick with sleep. "What are you doing?"
Every cell in my body screamed. But my voice came out soft, drowsy. "Bathroom. Go back to sleep, honey."
A pause. Then he grunted, rolled over, and closed his eyes.
I made it to the bathroom, locked the door, and sent the code to Dante with shaking hands.
*Got it.*
His reply: *Good girl. Now sleep. Tomorrow, we end this.*
I stared at those words longer than I should have.
Then I deleted the message and went back to bed beside the man I was about to destroy.
---
I cooked Marcus's favorite meals—medium-rare steak, roasted vegetables, red wine that cost more than most people's rent. I laughed at his jokes. I kissed him goodbye each morning with a smile so sweet it could rot teeth.
And every night, after he fell asleep, I photographed documents from his study, forwarded encrypted messages to Dante's team, and mapped out every connection Marcus had to the Volkov Syndicate.
It was the performance of a lifetime. And I was terrifyingly good at it.
"You seem different lately," Marcus said one evening, watching me over dinner. His eyes were calculating, assessing. The way he looked at a business deal.
My heart stuttered, but my face stayed serene. "Different how?"
"Happier." He reached across the table and took my hand. "I like it."
I smiled, slow and warm. "Maybe I just finally feel... settled."
He squeezed my fingers. "Good. That's good, sweetheart."
Under the table, my other hand was clenched so tight my nails drew blood from my palm.
Five more days.
Vivian and I met three times that week—venue scouting, florist consultations, seating arrangements. She chattered endlessly, completely at ease, convinced I was too dim to notice the way she texted Marcus when she thought I wasn't looking.
I noticed everything.
"Sera," she said over coffee, stirring sugar into her latte with a manicured nail, "have you thought about what you'll wear to the gala?"
"Not yet. Why?"
She leaned in conspiratorially. "I found this incredible dress—champagne gold, backless, slit up to here." She gestured at her thigh. "But it might be too much for me. Want it?"
In my last life, she gave me that dress. It was beautiful—and it was also designed to make me look desperate, too sexy, too attention-seeking. She'd planted the seed, then whispered to the other guests that I was "clearly losing it" and "trying too hard."
"You should wear it, Viv," I said sweetly. "You'd look stunning."
Surprise flickered across her face. She hadn't expected me to refuse. "Oh... are you sure?"
"Absolutely. I've already picked something out."
What I'd actually picked out was an elegant black gown—the kind that said power, not desperation. The kind that photographed well for news coverage.
Because there would be cameras at this gala. Dante had made sure of it.
Two days before the event, Dante called me on the secure phone.
"We have a problem."
My stomach dropped. "What kind of problem?"
"Marcus moved up a meeting. He's transferring the remaining assets tomorrow—not after the gala. If those funds leave the country, we lose our leverage."
I paced my bedroom, thinking fast. "What do you need?"
"His authorization code. The one he uses for international wire transfers. Sixteen digits. He changes it weekly."
I knew where he kept it. A leather-bound notebook in his bedside table. He thought it was safe because he slept beside it every night.
"I'll get it tonight," I said.
Dante paused. When he spoke again, his voice was different. Lower. Careful.
"Sera. If he catches you—"
"He won't."
"If he does," Dante pressed, "you run. Straight to me. Don't try to explain, don't try to talk your way out. You run."
The intensity in his voice made my breath catch. This wasn't just business to him. Not anymore.
"I'll be fine," I whispered. And I meant it.
That night, I waited until Marcus's breathing evened out. 2 AM. The room was dark, the only sound the ticking of the clock on the mantel.
I slid out of bed, silent as a ghost. Three steps to his nightstand. The drawer opened without a sound—I'd oiled the hinges days ago.
The notebook was right where it always was. I flipped to the last page, photographed the code with my phone's screen dimmed to its lowest setting, and slid it back.
My heart was hammering so hard I was sure it would wake him.
I turned to go back to bed—
And froze.
Marcus's eyes were open. Staring at me in the dark.
"Sweetheart?" His voice was thick with sleep. "What are you doing?"
Every cell in my body screamed. But my voice came out soft, drowsy. "Bathroom. Go back to sleep, honey."
A pause. Then he grunted, rolled over, and closed his eyes.
I made it to the bathroom, locked the door, and sent the code to Dante with shaking hands.
*Got it.*
His reply: *Good girl. Now sleep. Tomorrow, we end this.*
I stared at those words longer than I should have.
Then I deleted the message and went back to bed beside the man I was about to destroy.
---