I Quit Being a Trophy Wife to Reclaim My Empire

Ethan woke up screaming. Not externally—he was too repressed for that—but internally, his body was shrieking. A burning, gnawing fire sat in the center of his stomach. His ulcer. He stumbled out of bed, clutching his abdomen. He hadn't had a flare-up in four years. Not since Elara started making him that tea. He made it to the kitchen, pale and sweating. "Mrs. Higgins!" he barked. The housekeeper hurried in, wiping her hands on her apron. "Sir? Are you alright?" "The tea," he gasped, leaning against the marble island. "Make the tea Elara makes. The ginger one." Mrs. Higgins looked stricken. She wrung her hands. "I... I can't, sir." "What do you mean you can't? You've worked here for ten years!" "Ms. Elara never wrote down the recipe," Mrs. Higgins whispered. "She blended the herbs herself. She bought them from a specific shop in Chinatown. I don't know the ratio." Ethan stared at her. "It's just tea!" "It wasn't just tea, sir. She spent weeks perfecting it when you were hospitalized in 2019." Ethan felt the room tilt. He remembered that hospitalization. He remembered Elara sitting by his bed, reading medical journals about gut health, taking notes. He had thought she was just doodling. His eyes fell on a bottle of expensive Scotch on the counter. The amber liquid taunted him. He reached for it, his hand shaking. He poured a glass, bringing it to his lips, desperate for the burn to numb the pain. But as the smell hit his nose, his stomach convulsed in a violent spasm of rejection. He gagged, slamming the glass down, sloshing the liquor onto the marble. He couldn't even drink the pain away. He dumped the scotch into the sink, watching it swirl down the drain. "It tastes like trash," he groaned, sinking onto a bar stool. At that exact moment, Elara was standing in a bodega in Queens. The air smelled of spices and old cardboard. "Fresh ginger, turmeric, licorice root," she muttered, placing the roots on the counter. "Three dollars," the cashier said. She paid with crumpled bills. Back at the apartment, she grated the ginger into a chipped mug. She poured boiling water over it. The smell filled the tiny kitchen—spicy, earthy, healing. She took a sip. Her stomach settled. She felt a phantom pain in her chest, a sudden worry. Is his stomach okay? The stress usually triggers it. She shook her head violently. "Not my problem," she said aloud. "Not my patient." Ethan went to work because staying home in the empty silence was worse. He was a terror. He yelled at the VP of Marketing for a typo. He fired a junior analyst for breathing too loudly. Around noon, Serena showed up. She breezed past his secretary, carrying a plastic cup with a green sludge inside. "Ethan!" She cooed, closing the door. "I heard you weren't feeling well. I brought you a green smoothie! I read online that kale is good for everything." Ethan looked at her. He looked at the smoothie. He was in agony. "Give it here," he grunted. He took a massive swallow. The acidity of the lemon and the raw kale hit his stomach like a bomb. He doubled over, gagging. "Get out!" he roared, clutching the trash can. Serena jumped back, eyes wide. "But... I made it for you!" "It's poison! Get out!" She ran out, sobbing. Ethan lay on his office couch, sweating through his custom shirt. He closed his eyes and remembered Elara's cool hand on his forehead. Shh, Ethan. Breathe. It will pass. He needed to find her. Not just to control her. He needed her to fix him. He pulled out his phone and dialed the private investigator he had hired twenty-four hours ago. "Well?" Ethan rasped. "Where is she?" "I'm hitting a wall, Mr. Sterling," the PI said, sounding frustrated. "Her digital footprint is... gone. It's like she stepped off the edge of the earth. Whoever helped her wipe her tracks knew what they were doing. It's military-grade encryption." "I don't pay you for excuses!" Ethan shouted. "Find her!" He hung up and drove to the penthouse in the middle of the day. He tore through the bedroom. "She must have left a note. A diary. Something." He ripped open drawers. Nothing. He went to her closet. It was a cavern of emptiness. The hangers clattered together, a skeletal sound. He knelt on the floor of the closet. He felt a loose floorboard. He pried it open. There was a piece of paper inside. He unfolded it. It was a letter from Columbia University, dated six years ago. Dear Ms. Vance, We are pleased to offer you a place in the accelerated PhD program... Ethan frowned. He remembered this time. She had told him she didn't get in. She had said, "I'm not smart enough, Ethan. I think I'll just focus on being a good wife." He read the letter again. Accepted. Why had she lied? "She gave it up," he realized, the thought landing like a heavy stone. "She gave it up for me." He didn't feel gratitude. He felt confusion. If she was smart enough to get in, why act like a bimbo for six years? Elara arrived at the University Science Block. She smoothed her blazer. She knocked on the door of Lab 4. "Enter," a sharp voice called. Dr. Shang was a formidable woman with grey hair cut in a severe bob. She didn't look up from her microscope. "You're Vance?" "Yes, Dr. Shang." "You've been out of the field for six years. That's a lifetime in biology." Shang finally looked up. Her eyes were critical. "Why should I hire a housewife?" Elara didn't flinch. "Because the housewife spent six years reading every paper you published. I know you're stuck on the vector delivery system for the synthetic protein. I think the issue isn't the vector; it's the temperature stability of the payload." Shang went still. "Explain." Elara walked to the whiteboard. She picked up a marker. She started drawing chemical structures. The markers squeaked. She forgot her nerves. She forgot Ethan. She was just a mind, working. Ten minutes later, she capped the marker. Shang stared at the board. "You're overqualified for a junior assistant position." "I know," Elara said. "But I need a foot in the door." "You start tomorrow. 7 AM. Don't be late." Elara walked out of the building. The sun was shining. The air felt crisp. She took a deep breath, and for the first time in forever, her lungs filled completely. She started to cross the street. A silver Audi pulled up to the curb. The window rolled down. A man looked out. He had messy brown hair and kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He looked vaguely familiar, but Elara couldn't place him. "Elara?" he called out. Elara froze. Ethan was currently sitting in the dark closet, holding the acceptance letter. "You didn't fail," he whispered to the paper. "You quit. And now you're trying to go back." He crumpled the letter in his fist. "You won't make it," he said, trying to convince himself. "You need me."