My Husband Gifted His Mistress Luxury Watches

I didn't sleep that night. The image of Amber's wrist adorned with that Patek Philippe burned behind my eyelids whenever I closed them. The contrast was too stark, too deliberate—a hundred-thousand-dollar watch for his assistant, a marker drawing for his wife who'd just secured thirty million dollars for his company.

I waited until morning. The weak autumn sunlight filtered through our bedroom curtains as Ethan emerged from the shower, toweling his hair dry. Our Upper East Side apartment felt suddenly claustrophobic, the tasteful furnishings I'd selected over the years now witnesses to my humiliation.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked casually, not really looking at me as he selected a tie from his extensive collection.

I unlocked my phone and held it up, Amber's Instagram post displayed prominently. "I think we need to talk about this."

Ethan glanced at the screen, his expression flickering for just a moment before settling into practiced neutrality. "About Amber's new watch? What about it?"

"You bought her a hundred-thousand-dollar Patek Philippe." My voice remained steady, though I could feel heat rising to my face. "The same day you drew a cartoon on my wrist with marker."

He sighed, the sound so condescending it made my teeth clench. "It's a business incentive, Victoria. Amber's been instrumental in several key projects."

"And I just closed a thirty-million-dollar deal."

"That's different." He turned away, selecting cufflinks from a leather case. "You're my wife, not an employee I need to motivate."

"So your wife deserves less recognition than your assistant?"

Ethan's shoulders stiffened. He turned, his face arranged into an expression of patient disappointment that I'd seen countless times before. "Why are you being so materialistic? I thought you'd appreciate something personal and meaningful. If I'd known you wanted some overpriced timepiece, I would have just had accounting cut you a bonus check."

The casual cruelty of his words struck me like a physical blow. "This isn't about the watch itself. It's about what it represents."

"What it represents," he mimicked, rolling his eyes. "You sound ridiculous right now. I'm late for a meeting."

As he moved toward the door, something snapped inside me. I stepped into his path. "No. We're finishing this conversation."

Surprise flashed across his face. I rarely challenged him directly.

"You've been gaslighting me for years," I said, the realization crystallizing as I spoke. "Making me feel ungrateful, materialistic, or emotional whenever I ask for basic recognition."

"You're being hysterical," he said, but there was uncertainty in his voice now.

"Am I? Let's find out."

I grabbed my laptop from the nightstand and opened it, quickly navigating to FosterTech's internal expense portal. My senior position gave me access to financial records most employees couldn't see. Ethan moved to stop me, but froze when he saw what was already on my screen.

"Le Bernardin, $1,200. Per Se, $1,800. Weekend at Gurney's in the Hamptons, $5,400." I scrolled through the records, my voice growing colder with each entry. "All expenses filed under 'Amber Sullivan, performance bonus.' Quite the performer, isn't she?"

Ethan's face hardened. "You're violating company privacy protocols."

"That's what concerns you? Not the fact that you've been lavishing your assistant with luxury while telling me we needed to be careful with expenses?" I continued scrolling, each new entry fueling the ice forming around my heart. "Tiffany & Co., $12,000. Cartier, $8,500. All while you claimed we couldn't afford to renovate the kitchen because 'cash flow was tight.'"

"Business expenses are different from personal ones," he said, but his argument sounded hollow even to him.

"And this?" I clicked on an entry from three months ago—a weekend at the Plaza Hotel, presidential suite. "Was this business too?"

The color drained from his face. "You're misinterpreting—"

"I'm not stupid, Ethan." My voice was barely above a whisper now. "I just trusted you. My mistake."

I closed the laptop and looked at him—really looked at him—perhaps for the first time in years. The handsome face that had once made my heart race now seemed like a mask, hiding something ugly and small.

"I'll be staying at the Carlyle tonight," I said, moving past him to the closet. "And I'll be calling Eleanor Vance in the morning."

"The divorce attorney?" His voice cracked. "Victoria, you're overreacting. We can talk about this."

I turned to him, the marker stain still faintly visible on my wrist. "I think we're done talking."