Chapter 3 - The Good WifeThree days later, I pulled my beat-up sedan into the underground parking garage of our newly purchased downtown apartment building.
I took a deep breath, looked into the rearview mirror, and deliberately smeared a tiny bit of red lipstick near the corner of my mouth to look stressed and unkempt. I wore an oversized, faded cardigan and carried a cheap canvas tote bag.
When I unlocked the door to Apartment 14B, the scene inside was almost comical.
Cynthia was sitting on the newly delivered velvet sofa, sipping mimosa from a crystal glass. Brenda was leaning over the kitchen island, looking over floor plans with Elias, her hand resting casually on his lower back.
The moment the front door clicked, Brenda snapped her hand back, and Cynthia immediately put her glass down, adjusting her face into an expression of deep, exaggerated concern.
"Ella!" Elias exclaimed, rushing forward with open arms. "Oh my God, look at you! Where have you been? We were out of our minds with worry!"
I allowed him to wrap his arms around me. The smell of his cologne—the same cologne I had bought him for his birthday—made my stomach turn. I forced my body to go limp in his embrace, resting my head against his chest.
"I'm so sorry, Elias," I whimpered, keeping my voice faint and trembling. "I just... I felt so suffocated after the wedding. My head was spinning. I felt like I was losing control."
Cynthia stepped forward, wrapping a cold arm around my shoulders and pulling me away from Elias. "Oh, you poor, frail thing. We knew you were delicate, dear. Marriage is a huge adjustment for someone... well, someone with your limited experience."
"I brought Brenda over to help unpack," Elias said quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Since you were away, she volunteered to help organize the kitchen and the spare bedroom."
"The spare bedroom?" I asked, looking innocent.
Brenda gave me a sweet, sharp smile, her hand subtly resting over her still-flat abdomen. "Oh, you know, just in case Elias needs an office. Or if... well, if circumstances change and you need extra space. You look exhausted, Ella. Are you sure you’re taking your vitamins?"
"I've been feeling so tired lately," I murmured, playing right into their script. "My head hurts all the time."
"It's stress," Cynthia said smoothly, leading me toward the bedroom. "You've always been prone to these little emotional spells, haven't you, dear? Don't worry. Elias has taken full control of the financial paperwork for the apartment. You don't have to worry your pretty little head about mortgages, titles, or bank transfers anymore. Elias signed everything."
"Oh, thank goodness," I breathed, looking up at Elias with wide, grateful eyes. "You're so strong, Elias. I don't know what I'd do without you."
Elias flashed a self-satisfied smile, puffing out his chest. "That’s what a real man is for, Ella. To take care of the things you can't handle."
Over the next two weeks, I played the role of the breaking, incompetent wife with Oscar-worthy precision.
I left sticky notes around the house with fake reminders to take non-existent medication. I pretended to forget where I put my keys. I sat on the couch in silence for hours, staring out the window whenever Cynthia visited, allowing her to take photos of me looking "depressed" and "unstable"—photos I knew she was saving to present to a judge during the future divorce proceedings.
Meanwhile, behind the scenes, the net was closing.
Every night, while Elias slept soundly beside me—thinking he had completely broken my spirit—I brought out a secondary, encrypted phone from a hidden compartment in my purse.
Rebecca sent daily updates.
Item 1: Elias had officially filed the property title solely under his name, using the forged gift-letter he had tricked me into signing under the guise of "routine tax documents" months ago. He had committed felony wire fraud and bank fraud in the state of California.
Item 2: Cynthia had taken the bait at her company. After receiving a sudden "special appointment" to oversee a four-million-dollar vendor procurement budget for a new commercial construction project (secretly owned by a holding company under my father's umbrella), she had already begun channeling funds into a shell offshore account registered in Panama. She had stolen $350,000 in less than ten days.
Item 3: Brenda had filed for an anonymous prenatal registry, listing Elias Vance as the legal father, while simultaneously applying for a corporate housing grant under the pretense that she was a single, low-income mother.
They were flying high, completely intoxicated by their own perceived genius.
On the night before the Real Estate Gala, Elias sat at the dining table, buttoning a custom-tailored tuxedo—bought, of course, with money drawn from our joint account that he thought I wasn't monitoring.
"Ella," Elias said smoothly, looking at his reflection in the hallway mirror. "About tomorrow night's gala... I really think it's best if you stay home and rest."
I paused, looking up from the kitchen counter where I was making tea. "Stay home? But you said last week I could wear my green dress..."
"I know, honey," Elias said, walking over and placing a patronizing hand on my cheek. "But it’s a high-profile industry event. There will be serious corporate executives, investors, and high-society people there. Given your recent... mental fatigue, I just worry the crowd and the noise will trigger another panic attack. Brenda agreed to come as my corporate representative instead. She’s much more accustomed to networking in those circles."
I bit my lower lip, letting a tear well up in my eye. "Are you sure, Elias? I really wanted to celebrate with you."
"I'm positive, sweetie," he said, kissing my forehead with icy detachment. "Stay home. Take your rest. Let the professionals handle the heavy lifting."
"Okay," I whispered, lowering my head. "If you think that's best."
As soon as the front door closed behind him, I wiped the single tear from my face, pulled out my primary phone, and called my father's chauffeur.
"Arthur," I said crisp, authoritative, and entirely in control. "Bring the Bentley to the rear service entrance. And tell the styling team I need the custom dark-navy emerald dress ready in thirty minutes."
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Tonight wasn't just a gala.
It was an execution.
