The Rebirth of the Discarded Trophy Wife

The Hermès bag felt heavier than usual as I stood outside Kade's corner office, my manicured fingers wrapped around the brass door handle. Through the frosted glass, I could make out two silhouettes pressed together in what looked like an intimate embrace.

I pushed the door open.

There she was—Abagail, the twenty-two-year-old marketing intern with her perfectly straightened blonde hair and that innocent smile she wore during board meetings. Except right now, she was straddling my fiancé's lap in his executive chair, her pencil skirt hiked up around her thighs, their mouths locked together like they were drowning and each other was oxygen.

The office smelled like expensive cologne mixed with her vanilla perfume. Taylor Swift's voice drifted from the Bose speakers mounted on the wall, singing something dark and haunting about karma.

I glanced down at my Apple Watch. Heart rate: 65 beats per minute. Steady as a metronome.

Interesting.

In my previous life—the one that ended with me sobbing in this very office while Kade called me a "hysterical bitch"—my heart would have been hammering at 140 by now. I would have been screaming, throwing his crystal paperweights, making a scene that would have the entire floor talking for weeks.

But that version of Sloane died three months ago in a car accident that somehow sent me back to this moment. This time, I felt nothing but a strange, crystalline clarity.

Kade's hands were tangled in Abagail's hair when he finally sensed my presence. He jerked his head up, his blue eyes wide with the kind of panic I'd never seen before. His perfectly styled dark hair was mussed, his tie askew.

"Sloane—" he started, roughly pushing Abagail off his lap. She stumbled slightly, her cheeks flushed pink, lipstick smeared.

I reached into my bag and pulled out a sleek gold card, holding it between two fingers like a business card. The weight of it was satisfying—heavy stock, embossed lettering.

"The Ritz-Carlton," I said, my voice steady and almost warm. "Presidential suite. I took the liberty of booking it for the night."

Kade's mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air. Abagail was frantically smoothing down her skirt, her face cycling through embarrassment, confusion, and something that might have been disappointment.

"What the hell are you—" Kade began, his voice taking on that familiar edge of condescension I knew so well.

"Playing it smart," I interrupted, taking a step closer. My Louboutin heels clicked against the marble floor with each measured step. "Abagail hasn't been converted to full-time yet, has she? An affair with an intern could be... problematic for the IPO. Bad optics."

I held out the key card to him, noting how his hand trembled slightly when he didn't immediately take it.

"The penthouse has floor-to-ceiling windows," I continued conversationally. "Overlooks the city. I thought you'd appreciate the view while you... discuss her performance review."

Abagail made a small sound—half gasp, half whimper. Her mascara had smudged slightly under her left eye, giving her a vulnerable look that probably drove men wild. In my past life, I would have wanted to claw her eyes out. Now, I mostly felt sorry for her. She had no idea what she was getting into.

Kade finally found his voice, but it came out strangled. "Sloane, you can't be serious. This isn't—we weren't—"

"Of course you weren't." I smiled, the expression feeling foreign on my face. "You were just mentoring her. Teaching her the ins and outs of corporate strategy. Very hands-on approach."

The silence stretched between us, broken only by Taylor Swift's voice crooning about mastermind schemes and calculated moves. How fitting.

I placed the key card on his desk, right next to the framed photo of us from last year's charity gala—the one where I was gazing at him like he'd hung the moon while he smiled that practiced smile for the cameras.

"Take your time," I said, turning toward the door. "The room is booked through the weekend."

"Sloane, wait—" Kade's voice cracked slightly.

I paused at the threshold, looking back over my shoulder. He was standing now, his shirt untucked, looking more disheveled than I'd ever seen him. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—maybe regret, maybe fear. But it was gone too quickly to be sure.

"Oh, and Kade?" I said, my voice honey-sweet. "Next time you want to fire me from my own company, you might want to make sure the intern you're fucking doesn't have a direct line to the board of directors. Abagail's father is Charles Morrison. You remember Charles, don't you? Our biggest investor?"

Abagail's face went white. Kade's jaw dropped.

I pulled out my phone and opened Threads, typing quickly: "End of an era. Beginning of an empire." The post went live with a satisfying little whoosh sound.

My heels clicked a steady rhythm as I walked toward the elevator, each step lighter than the last. Behind me, I could hear urgent whispers, Kade's voice rising in what sounded like panic.

The elevator doors were just sliding open when a hand shot out, fingers splayed against the brushed steel to stop them from closing. Kade squeezed into the small space beside me, his breathing ragged, his face a mottled red.

"What the fuck was that?" he hissed, jabbing the button for the parking garage with more force than necessary.

I studied my reflection in the polished elevator doors. My auburn hair was still perfectly styled, my makeup flawless, my cream-colored blazer unwrinkled. I looked like a woman in complete control.

"That," I said, watching his reflection beside mine, "was me being reasonable."

The elevator descended in tense silence, the numbers counting down like a timer on a bomb.