My Fair CEO Husband Took His Secretary’s Side

"Tear it down and start over."

Zack tossed the marketing dossier onto the mahogany table. The bound papers fanned out, sliding toward the edge.

"Start over?" I asked, keeping my voice steady despite the sudden burn in my throat. "Mr. Mercer, my team spent three weeks finalizing this launch strategy."

"Then you wasted three weeks." He replied flatly.

His dark eyes locked onto mine, completely devoid of the warmth I expected from my husband. We had been secretly married for three years, a strict boundary we set to protect my position as Marketing Director. But right now, he looked at me like a stranger.

"The numbers are conservative," Zack continued, leaning forward. "The outreach is uninspired. I need a complete rewrite by Monday."

"Monday?" I gripped the edge of the podium. "That means my entire team working through the weekend."

"Is that a problem, Director Thorne?"

"The data proves this demographic responds to subtle campaigns," I argued, refusing to back down in front of the board. "If we push too hard, we lose the core audience."

"If we don't push hard enough, we lose the market share," Zack countered. His tone left no room for debate. "Redo it. Meeting adjourned."

He stood, buttoned his suit jacket, and strode out of the room. He didn't offer a backward glance.

No text message followed. No phone call. Not a single word of comfort from the man who shared my bed. I sat at my desk until nine o'clock, convincing myself this was just how we operated. Zack was fair. He was impartial. He separated business from pleasure, and I respected his dedication.

I packed my bag and pushed through the revolving glass doors of the lobby. A torrential downpour hammered the pavement.

"Great," I muttered, shivering as the freezing wind cut through my coat.

I stepped toward the curb to hail a cab, but a sleek black Maybach idling near the corner caught my attention. Zack’s car.

He stood on the wet sidewalk. He wasn't alone.

Odessa, his executive secretary, huddled against his side. Zack held a large black umbrella over her head, completely ignoring the rain soaking his own expensive wool shoulder.

"Watch your step," Zack murmured, his voice carrying over the sound of the storm.

I froze. My fingers curled into tight fists inside my pockets.

He reached out, pulling the passenger door open for her. Odessa didn't get in right away. Instead, she leaned closer, her hand resting flat against his chest.

"Zack," she said softly, tilting her head up. "You're still only this gentle with me."

My stomach dropped.

*Still?*

Zack didn't pull away. He didn't correct her. He didn't remind her of professional boundaries—the exact boundaries he used as a weapon against me hours ago.

Instead, he smiled. A small, soft curve of his lips that I hadn't seen in months. He lifted a hand and wiped a stray raindrop from Odessa’s cheek.

"Get inside before you freeze," he told her.

"Join me," she purred, sliding into the leather seat.

Zack shut the door, rounded the hood, and climbed into the driver's side. The engine roared to life, the taillights bleeding red across the wet asphalt.

Rain lashed against my face, mingling with the hot tears suddenly spilling from my eyes. I pulled my left hand from my pocket and stared at the simple platinum band on my ring finger.

Three years of hiding. Three years of accepting his coldness because I thought he was just a disciplined man.

He wasn't incapable of favoritism. He just didn't favor me.

A yellow taxi splashed to a halt right in front of me.

"You getting in, lady?" the driver yelled through the cracked window.

"Follow that black Maybach," I commanded, yanking the door open and throwing myself into the backseat.

"Stalking a cheating boyfriend?" the driver asked, throwing the cab into gear.

"My husband," I corrected, my voice cracking.

The driver whistled low. "Rough night. Hold on tight."

I kept my eyes glued to the Maybach's taillights. The rational part of my brain screamed at me to go home. To confront him in our kitchen tomorrow morning. But the image of his thumb stroking Odessa's cheek burned behind my eyelids.

I pulled out my phone and dialed his number.

It rang three times before he answered.

"What is it, Aria?" Zack asked. The background noise sounded muffled, insulated.

"Are you coming home?" I asked, staring at the back of his car just fifty yards ahead.

"I'm still at the office," he replied smoothly. "Late night. Reviewing the European accounts. Don't wait up."

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. "The office. Right."

"Is there something else?" he pressed, annoyance creeping into his tone.

"No," I whispered. "Work hard, Zack."

I ended the call and dropped the phone onto the seat.

"He lied?" the driver guessed, glancing at me through the rearview mirror.

"Through his teeth."

"Where are they going?" I asked, leaning forward.

"Heading out of the financial district," the driver reported. "Looks like they're taking the west side highway."

"Keep your distance, but don't lose them."

We drove for twenty minutes. The neon lights of the city blurred into the dark, rain-swept streets of an exclusive neighborhood.

The Maybach slowed, turning down a narrow, private driveway flanked by tall iron gates.

"I can't go past those gates, miss," the driver said, pulling over to the curb. "That's The Obsidian Lounge. High-end private club. Members only."

I shoved a fifty-dollar bill over the center console. "Keep the change."

I stepped out into the storm. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but the cold had seeped directly into my bones.

I walked up to the wrought-iron fence and peered through the bars. Zack’s car sat parked near the grand entrance. A valet handed him a VIP token. Odessa linked her arm through his, pressing her body against his side as they disappeared behind the heavy mahogany doors.

I reached for the iron gate, the metal freezing against my palm.

Why would a CEO and his secretary come to an underground private club at ten o'clock on a Friday night?

A sudden buzz vibrated in my coat pocket. I pulled out my phone.

The caller ID flashed a name I hadn't seen in five years. Julian.

My pulse pounded in my ears as I swiped answer.

"Aria," a deep, raspy voice said on the other end. "I saw your husband walk in."

"Julian?" I asked, my grip tightening on the device. "What are you doing there?"

"I own the place," he replied coolly. "And you might want to come to the back entrance. Right now."