1. Cassie #2
I want to dislike her. I’m looking for reasons, cataloging the designer dress, the perfect highlights, the way she touched Charles’s name with casual familiarity.
But she seems genuine, maybe even nervous beneath the polish.
Her hands fidget slightly with her bag strap, and there’s a tension around her eyes that suggests she’s trying very hard to make a good impression.
“Let me show you around,” I say, and lead her toward the elevators.
She asks questions the whole way up, smart questions mostly, about how the house runs and the standing dinners and the particular quirks of Charles’s moods.
I find myself relaxing despite my initial wariness.
She’s clearly done her research. She knows all of it already, the names that matter, the parties worth being seen at, the whole social map I spent years learning.
Whatever else she might be, she’s not stupid.
“How long have you been married?” she asks as we step out onto the executive floor.
“Five years. Six together total.”
“That’s amazing.” Her voice turns wistful. “I got married last year. It still feels so new, you know? Like I’m playing pretend sometimes.”
“It gets more real,” I tell her. “Eventually.”
I don’t mention that real isn’t always better. That real is separate bedrooms and silent dinners and a husband who touches you like you’re furniture he forgot to move.
“This is your desk,” I say, gesturing to the workstation outside Charles’s office.
It’s identical to mine, which is just around the corner, close enough to monitor but far enough to maintain the illusion of hierarchy.
“I’ll send you the login credentials and the master calendar.
We can go over some files this afternoon. ”
“Perfect.” Celine sets down her bag and starts arranging her things with quick, efficient movements. “Oh, I almost forgot.”
She holds up her left hand, and a diamond the size of a small grape catches the light.
“I wanted to show you. I just got it reset last month.” She wiggles her fingers, watching the stone sparkle. “My husband kept saying I should upgrade, but I love the original setting. It’s the one he proposed with, you know? Sentimental.”
“It’s beautiful,” I say, because it is.
“Thank you.” She tucks her hand back down, suddenly shy. “I know it’s silly, but I like having a little reminder of him during the day. This job is going to be so busy, and he travels a lot for work, so it helps.”
She trails off, shrugging.
Charles catches my hand on his way past, turns it over, frowns at my bare fingers. “Where’s your ring?”
“Upstairs. I forget it some mornings.” I don’t tell him it’s been most mornings for the better part of a year. I wait to see if he notices that too.
“Huh,” he says, and lets my hand drop, and reaches for his coffee.
I think about that ring, the one he picked out without ever asking what I wanted.
It’s tasteful and expensive and sits in my jewelry box most days because I keep forgetting to put it on.
When did I stop wearing it? When did the symbol of our marriage turn into just another thing I forget in the morning rush, easy to leave behind?
“It’s not silly,” I say. “It’s sweet.”
Celine beams at me, and the tight feeling in my chest loosens slightly. Maybe this won’t be so bad. Maybe Charles was right, and having help will give us more time together, and I’ve been worried over nothing.
“I have a feeling,” Celine says, tilting her head as she studies me, her smile never faltering, “we’re going to be such good friends.”
Her eyes hold mine for a beat too long, and there’s a look in her gaze I can’t quite name, one that makes me want to step back even as I hold my ground.
And despite everything I just told myself, I can’t quite make myself believe her.
Charles takes us both to lunch, and it’s supposed to be a welcome gesture, a chance for the three of us to get to know each other, but I spend most of the meal watching them instead of eating.
My salad sits mostly untouched while I catalog every interaction, every glance, every moment of contact between my husband and his new assistant.
Celine hangs on his every word. She laughs at jokes that aren’t funny, asks follow-up questions that make him puff up with importance, leans in just slightly too close when he shows her something on his phone.
Her body language is textbook attentive, angled toward him, mirroring his movements, making him feel like the most interesting person in the room.
And Charles is animated in a way I haven’t seen in months. He’s telling stories about the early days of the company, the deals he closed, the risks he took. He’s gesturing with his hands, making eye contact, actually present in a way he never is with me anymore.
“You built all of this yourself?” Celine asks, eyes wide. “That’s incredible.”
“Well, I had help.” He glances at me, almost as an afterthought. “Cassie’s been with me since the beginning.”
“Since almost the beginning,” I correct. “I started in the assistant pool. Worked my way up.”
“And then I swept her off her feet.” Charles reaches over and squeezes my hand, but his eyes are already back on Celine. “Best decision I ever made.”
The words should warm me. They don’t. They feel rehearsed, automatic, like a line from a script he’s performed so many times he’s forgotten it’s supposed to mean something.
I watch Celine watch my husband, and I notice how she mirrors his body language, how she touches her hair when he looks at her, how she laughs with her whole body like he’s the most fascinating person she’s ever met.
She’s probably just good at her job. Some people are natural schmoozers, built for dinner parties and working a room. It doesn’t mean anything.
But when we get back to the office and I see her touch his arm, just briefly, just a graze of fingers as she thanks him for lunch, I feel my stomach tighten.
I’m being paranoid. I’m being the jealous wife, the suspicious shrew, the woman who can’t handle her husband having a female colleague. I’ve worked with Charles for five years, surrounded by women, and I’ve never felt this way before.
I hate that I’m being this person.
I hate more that I can’t seem to stop.
That night, I wait for Charles in bed. I’ve showered and shaved and put on the lingerie he used to love, the black lace set I bought for our anniversary three years ago. I’ve dimmed the lights and lit a candle and done everything the magazines say you’re supposed to do to rekindle the spark.
He comes in late, loosening his tie, barely glancing at me before heading to the bathroom.
“Long day,” he calls through the door.
“I noticed.” I sit up against the pillows, trying to look inviting without looking desperate. “Celine seems to be settling in well.”
“She’s great. Really sharp.” The water runs. “I think this is going to work out perfectly.”
“Charles.”
“Mm?”
“Come to bed.”
There’s a pause. Then the water shuts off, and he emerges in his pajamas, the old flannel ones, not the silk I bought him for Christmas. He hasn’t worn the silk in months. I’m starting to wonder if he ever will again.
He looks at me. Takes in the lingerie, the candles, the obvious effort.
“Cass.” His voice is gentle, which only makes it worse. “I’m exhausted. Rain check?”
“You’ve been saying that for weeks.”
“It’s been a busy time. You know that better than anyone.” He climbs into bed, but on the far side, putting distance between us. “Once things calm down with the new hire, we’ll have more time. That’s the whole point, remember?”
I want to push. I want to demand answers, to ask why he flinches when I try to kiss him, to understand when exactly I became someone he tolerates instead of desires.
But I’m tired too. Tired of fighting for scraps of attention. Tired of performing enthusiasm for a marriage that feels more like a business arrangement every day.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Rain check.”
He rolls over, presenting me with his back, and within minutes his breathing evens out into sleep.
I lie awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, thinking about how Charles looked at Celine today. How he laughed at her jokes. How his whole face changed when she walked into the room.
He used to look at me like that.
I reach for him in the dark, and my hand finds cold sheets. He’s already moved to the far edge of the bed, his back a wall between us.
Somewhere in the last year, we became strangers sharing a mattress, and I was too busy managing his life to notice it happening.
The lingerie suddenly feels ridiculous, like a costume for a play that closed months ago. I get up quietly, change into old pajamas, and blow out the candle.
Tomorrow I’ll show Celine how everything runs, the way I’ve always run it.
Tomorrow I’ll smile and pretend everything is fine.
But tonight, alone in the dark with my sleeping husband three feet and a thousand miles away, I let myself wonder: what if he hired her for reasons that have nothing to do with lightening my workload?
And what if I already know the answer, and I’m just too afraid to face it?