He Killed Me Once, But I Was Reborn

It was almost twelve when I carefully took out an elegant Hermès container and walked out my car—I brought Ambrose his favorite lunch, truffle risotto with wild mushrooms, the way his grandmother used to make it, paired with that rare Bordeaux he'd been saving.

Yes. I was about to show up and surprise him.

The Sterling Group headquarters towered over Manhattan like a glass monument to old money and new power. I'd been here countless times for galas and board meetings, but never like this—never as the devoted wife bringing lunch to her hardworking husband. The marble lobby echoed with the click of my Louboutin heels as I swept past the security desk, my Chanel coat billowing behind me.

"Mrs. Sterling," the receptionist beamed, "Mr. Sterling isn't expecting you, is he?"

"It's a surprise," I said, my smile radiant with anticipation. "Don't announce me."

The elevator climbed fifty floors in silence, my reflection multiplied in the polished steel walls. I looked perfect—every hair in place, makeup flawless, the picture of Manhattan elegance. Good.

The executive floor stretched before me in hushed luxury, all mahogany and Persian rugs. Ambrose's corner office sat at the end, its double doors slightly ajar. I could hear voices inside—his deep baritone that always attracted.

Yet I also heard something strange, and I reckoned that voice...

The voice that echoed to Ambrose’s laughter was something softer, more melodic.

Mireille.

I paused, lunch container growing heavy in my hands, a sense of disgust and annoyance crawling in my heart.

Come on. Not her again.

But of course she was there. His executive assistant had become practically attached to his hip over the past few months, always finding reasons to work late, to accompany him to meetings, to brush against his arm when passing documents.

I pushed the thought away. Ambrose had chosen me, married me, built a life with me. Mireille was just... efficient.

I reached for the door handle, ready to surprise them both with my thoughtful gesture.

The world tilted.

Through the gap in the doorway, I saw them. Ambrose stood behind his massive desk, Mireille pressed against him, her slender hands splayed across his chest. Their faces were inches apart, lips almost touching, her blonde head tilted up toward his in a pose of perfect intimacy.

The lunch container slipped from my numb fingers, hitting the marble floor with a crash that shattered the silence.

They sprang apart like guilty teenagers, but the damage was done. The image burned itself into my retinas—my husband, my Ambrose, about to kiss another woman in the office where our wedding photo still sat on his desk.

"What—" The word came out as a strangled whisper. I tried again, louder. "What the hell is going on here?"