Neglected and Humiliated Wife of a Billionaire Husband (Billionaire Marriage in Crisis: Newport #9)

1. Brittney

— ? —

Brittney

I set the last champagne glass on the table, step back, and immediately second-guess the placement.

Not because it’s wrong. It isn’t wrong. I measured.

But maybe it’s my ADHD brain that likes to double-check things, then triple-check them, then wonder if the checking itself was wrong.

I was diagnosed young, managed it ever since, and still treated by Elise like a personality flaw I could fix if I just tried harder.

The penthouse looks perfect. It always looks perfect. I’ve spent years making sure of it. Years of dinner parties and charity events and careful flower arrangements, and somewhere in there I got really, really good at making beautiful things that don’t belong to me.

My sketchbook sits by the bedroom door - the one filled with actual things I’ve designed, buildings I’ve dreamed up when I couldn’t sleep. Shawn walks past it every morning. Never once asks what’s in it.

To be fair, I stopped expecting him to ask about three years ago.

The table gleams under the pendant lights I chose, the ones Elise said were “a bit much” and then took credit for at the Henderson gala.

I run my finger along the edge of a charger plate, checking for water spots that don’t exist, because if I don’t have something to do with my hands, I’ll start rearranging things that don’t need rearranging.

The elevator dings.

My whole body goes rigid before I even see who it is. Years of Elise Ross, and my nervous system has learned to brace for impact at the sound of an elevator. Pavlov would be fascinated. I’m mostly just tired.

She sweeps in like she owns the place - which, technically, she does; the penthouse was a “wedding gift” that I’m pretty sure could be revoked at any moment - champagne already in hand, diamonds catching the light.

Her silver hair is swept into the kind of effortless chignon that takes two hours and a professional to achieve.

She’s wearing Chanel, because of course she is, and her perfume hits me before she’s fully through the door.

Something floral and expensive that I’ve never been able to identify because she’d rather die than tell me the name.

“The table looks lovely,” she says.

I wait. There’s always a “but” with Elise. Sometimes she makes you wait for it. She likes watching you hope.

Her eyes land on my dress. Navy silk, fitted, the nicest thing I own that isn’t something she picked out for me.

There it was.

“That dress again? I suppose when the budget is limited, ‘classic’ is one word for it.”

We’re doing this already. I haven’t even finished the appetizers.

She glides past me, trailing her fingers along the back of a dining chair like she’s checking for dust. The gesture is deliberate, designed to make me feel like the help. It works. It always works.

“Shawn, darling,” she raises her voice, projecting toward the study where my husband has been hiding for the past hour, “how’s your little project coming along? The wife, I mean.”

Little project.

She’s called me that before. At the Henderson gala. At Christmas. At Shawn’s birthday dinner, while I was cutting his cake.

I’ve smiled through all of them. Swallowed it. Moved on. That’s what good wives do, right? Keep the peace. Don’t make a scene. Be the bigger person.

But tonight - I don’t know. Maybe it’s the architecture school acceptance letter I’ve been carrying alone, the one sitting in my email like a secret heartbeat.

Maybe it’s years of swallowed words finally hitting capacity.

Maybe I’m just really, really sick of being the bigger person while everyone else gets to be as small as they want.

“The table looks lovely because I made it that way, Elise.” My voice comes out steadier than I expected. “You’re welcome.”

The room goes quiet.

I can feel the caterers in the kitchen freeze mid-motion. Even the air seems to hold its breath.

Elise’s smile doesn’t waver. It never does. But something cold flickers behind her eyes - not anger, worse: amusement. Like I’ve done something cute.

“Oh, she’s feisty tonight! How refreshing.” She turns toward the study, her voice carrying with theatrical precision. “Your little project has opinions.”

I look at my husband, who’s appeared in the doorway with his phone in hand, his tie already loosened. Say something. Please. Just once.

He gives me that tight smile - the one that means please don’t make this worse - and his hand goes automatically to his watch, fingers brushing the face the way they always do when he’s under pressure.

“Mom, the Milan contracts came in. Did you see the clause about the timeline?”

And just like that. Conversation moved. I was absorbed back into the background.

I’d pushed back. It hadn’t mattered at all.

Which, honestly, tracked.

I busy myself with adjusting a napkin that doesn’t need adjusting while Elise launches into a detailed analysis of contract law that I’m certain she’s making up as she goes.

Shawn nods along, his eyes glazing over in that particular way that means he’s not actually listening but has perfected the appearance of engagement.

I used to find that endearing - my husband, the master of the strategic nod.

Now I just wonder how often he does it to me.

The elevator dings again.

Oh, Mikayla. Here we go.

I’ve never actually met her, but I could write her biography. Elise has been talking about Mikayla Bright for years. Mikayla got into Oxford’s accelerated program. Mikayla’s family has a compound in the Hamptons. Mikayla and Shawn had such chemistry back in high school.

My personal favorite, dropped at a dinner party while I was refilling Elise’s wine: “Everyone thought they’d end up together. But then…” a glance at me, “…life takes unexpected turns.”

So yes. I know who’s about to walk out of that elevator. I know she’s brilliant, beautiful, old-money, and - according to my mother-in-law - everything I’m not.

What I don’t know is that tonight is the night Elise finally makes her move.

Mikayla steps out like the elevator is a runway.

Red dress. Heels that click like punctuation marks.

She’s beautiful, obviously. The kind of beautiful that makes other women subtly check their lipstick.

Dark hair swept over one shoulder, cheekbones that could cut glass, a smile that’s all teeth and no warmth.

She goes straight to Shawn. Arms around his shoulders. Cheek pressed to his.

“Hi, everyone.” She doesn’t look at me. “Miss me?”

My fingers tighten on the back of a chair.

Years of marriage. And this woman greets my husband like I’m the stranger in the room.

Noted.

Shawn laughs - not the polite chuckle he uses at business dinners, but something warmer, more genuine - and disentangles himself with what looks like reluctance. “Mi, you made it. How was the flight?”

Mi. He has a nickname for her.

“Endless,” she says, finally deigning to glance in my direction. Her eyes sweep over me the way Elise’s did, cataloging and dismissing in a single motion. “You must be Brittney. Elise talks about you constantly.”

I’m sure she does.

“All good things, I hope,” I say, because that’s what you’re supposed to say.

Mikayla’s smile sharpens. “She says you’re very… attentive. To details.”

Attentive to details. Also known as: good at being a servant.

“That’s me,” I say. “The detail girl.”

Elise touches the pearls at her throat. Casual. Possessive.

Those pearls.

I remember our first year. Standing in this very room. Shawn’s hand warm on my back, his voice full of something that sounded like love.

“They’ll be yours one day. When Mom comes around. You’re going to carry this name with me.”

I’d believed him. Completely. The way you believe things when you’re young and in love and haven’t yet learned that promises can rot when no one’s looking.

Years later, the pearls have never been mentioned again. They sit around Elise’s neck like a reminder of everything I’m still waiting for.

Funny how “when Mom comes around” had turned into “never.”

Or maybe it isn’t funny. Maybe it’s just true.

Mikayla settles onto the couch like she’s been sitting there for years, her red dress pooling around her like spilled wine.

Shawn sits beside her - not touching, but close enough that their shoulders brush when she leans in to laugh at something he says.

I don’t catch the joke. I’m not sure I was meant to.

I excuse myself to check on the catering.

The kitchen is controlled chaos, silver trays being loaded with appetizers I spent hours selecting, champagne bottles being uncorked with practiced efficiency.

The head caterer gives me a sympathetic look when I walk in, which is somehow worse than Elise’s condescension.

I don’t want pity. I just want to stop feeling like a guest in my own home.

I find Shawn in the hallway twenty minutes later, scrolling through his phone while the party hums in the next room.

“Can I have five minutes? Just us?”

His head snaps up like I’ve asked for a kidney. His hand finds his watch again, thumb skating over the face.

“Not tonight. I’ve got a lot on my plate.”

Not tonight. It’s always not tonight. Not this weekend. Not until the Milan deal closes. Not until your mother calms down. Not until, not until, not until.

I’ve stopped counting the postponed conversations. There are too many. If I saved them all up, I’d have enough material for a miniseries.

“Shawn, I just need-”

“We’ll talk soon,” he says, already walking back toward the living room. Toward Mikayla. “After the gala dust settles. I promise.”

He’s said the same thing before. And the weekend before that.

His “promises” and my “five minutes” have the same lifespan: about thirty seconds before something more important comes along.

I slip into the bedroom to breathe.

My laptop sits on the dresser, the acceptance letter file right there on the desktop. I told Shawn about architecture school when I started the application. Showed him the program. Explained how much it meant to me.

“That’s great, babe,” he’d said, scrolling through emails. “Pass the salt?”

I’d told him when I submitted my portfolio. Told him when I got the interview. Told him when the acceptance letter finally came.

Each time: the same half-listening nod. The same “that’s nice.” The same eyes sliding back to his phone before I finished a sentence.

After a while, I stopped bringing it up. Not because it’s a secret - just because talking to someone who isn’t listening feels lonelier than not talking at all.

The best architecture program in the city, and I’ll be starting soon.

He doesn’t know. Not because I’ve hidden it. Because he’s never once asked.

That’s the thing about being married to Shawn. He notices surface details - whether the flowers match the tablecloth, whether his tie is the right shade of blue. But he filters out emotional content with the efficiency of a spam blocker. If he doesn’t look at a problem, it stops existing for him.

I close the laptop and catch sight of myself in the mirror. Navy dress. Hair I spent an hour on. Makeup that’s already starting to feel like a mask.

I look exactly like what I am: someone who’s very good at showing up for things that don’t show up for her.

The party winds down around midnight. I smile and nod and refill glasses and pretend I don’t notice the way Mikayla’s hand lingers on Shawn’s arm when she says goodbye, or the way his laugh sounds different when she’s the one who’s caused it.

Elise is the last to leave, pressing an air-kiss to my cheek that lands somewhere near my ear.

“Lovely evening, darling. The napkin folds were… ambitious.”

I don’t know what that means and I don’t ask.

Long after Shawn falls asleep, my phone buzzes.

Mikayla’s public story. Her and Shawn, champagne glasses raised, heads close together. His tired smile aimed only at her - the real one, not the performance version.

Caption: Late nights with my favorite genius. ?? #PowerCouple #Imissedyou

I stare at it for a long time.

My husband is asleep three feet away. His phone is dark on the nightstand. And another woman just posted a photo calling him her favorite anything like I don’t exist.

I could wake him up. Demand answers. Make it a fight.

Instead, I lie in the dark and count ceiling tiles - a thing I do when anxiety spikes, which is often - and I think: This is how it starts. This is how they replace you. One Instagram post at a time.

The acceptance letter glows in my mind.

So close to something that’s only mine.

I hold onto that thought like a life raft and wait for morning.