Too Late, Mr. CEO: You Lost Her

I sold my cameras and lenses—everything that defined me—to buy the first servers for my husband’s startup.

Fifteen years later, on my birthday, Dustin left me alone to celebrate with his new assistant, Jami.

When I confronted him about the affair, he didn't apologize. He threw a fifty-thousand-dollar check at me and told me to buy something pretty.

But the betrayal didn't stop there. Jami broke into our safe and stole my late mother's vintage sapphire ring.

When I tried to take it back, she snapped the eighty-year-old gold band in half.

I slapped her. In response, my husband shoved me hard.

My head cracked against the solid oak nightstand. Blood poured down my face, staining the rug I had picked out.

Dustin didn't call an ambulance. He didn't even check my pulse.

He stepped over my bleeding body to comfort his mistress because she was "stressed."

When his parents found out, they didn't care about my injury. They came to where I was hiding, accused me of being clumsy, and threatened to leave me with nothing if I ruined the family image.

They forgot one crucial detail: I was the one who designed, coded, and installed the penthouse's smart security system.

I had synced every camera to my private cloud before I walked out.

I had the video of him assaulting me. I had the audio of him admitting to fraud.

And I had my father on speed dial—the man who owned the bank holding all of Dustin's loans.

I looked at his terrified parents and pulled up the footage on the TV.

"I don't want your money," I said, my finger hovering over the 'Send' button to the District Attorney. "I want to watch him burn."

Chapter 1

Eliana POV

The bottle of bubblegum-pink nail polish sitting on Dustin's mahogany desk certainly wasn't mine, but the shark-tooth bracelet next to it definitely belonged to his new assistant, Jami.

I stood frozen in the center of the home office I had personally designed, holding a tray of freshly brewed espresso.

The steam curled against my face, sharp and bitter.

My husband didn't even look up from his monitors.

Dustin was typing furiously, his brow furrowed in that intense way that used to make my stomach flip with admiration.

Now, it just made me feel invisible.

"You left this in the kitchen," I said, my voice sounding thin in the expansive room.

"Just set it down, Eliana," he muttered, waving a hand dismissively without shifting his gaze from the screen. "I'm in the middle of a crisis."

I placed the coffee near the pink bottle.

The contrast was screaming at me.

The sleek, dark wood of the desk, the professional clutter, and that cheap, neon vial that looked like a stain on our life.

I walked out, my heart thumping a slow, heavy rhythm against my ribs.

I went to the kitchen and checked the oven.

The roast had been done for an hour.

It was drying out, shriveling in the heat, just like the conversation I had rehearsed in my head all afternoon.

Fifteen years.

We started in a garage that smelled like mildew and old oil.

I sold my cameras, my lenses-everything that defined who I was-to buy his first servers.

I was his first investor, his first employee, his first believer.

Now I was just the woman who made sure his coffee was hot and his house was clean.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

It was a text from an unsaved number, but I knew who it was.

He loves the way I taste.

Attached was a photo.

It was blurry, taken in low light, but I recognized the leather seats of Dustin's car.

And I recognized the hand resting on a thigh clad in denim.

It was Dustin's hand.

I recognized the watch. The Patek Philippe I had saved for three years to buy him for our tenth anniversary.

I stared at the screen until the image seemed to sear itself into my mind.

I didn't cry.

I think I had cried enough over the last six months to fill the harbor view outside our window.

Instead, I felt a cold, hard stone settle in my gut.

I walked back to the office.

Dustin was laughing now, talking into his headset.

"Yeah, Jami, that's brilliant. No, seriously, you saved the day."

He spun his chair around and saw me.

The smile vanished instantly, replaced by a look of annoyance.

"What is it now, Eliana? I told you I'm working."

"It's my birthday," I said.

The silence that stretched between us was suffocating.

He blinked, once, twice.

He looked at the calendar on his screen.

"Oh," he said. "Right."

He didn't apologize.

He didn't stand up to hug me.

He just rubbed his temples like I was a headache he couldn't shake.

"I'm sorry, El, but we have this launch. Jami and the team are waiting for me at the office for a debrief. I have to go."

"You're going to the office? At nine p.m.?"

"It's work, Eliana. Stop being so sensitive. You know how important this is."

He stood up, grabbing his keys and his phone.

He grabbed the shark-tooth bracelet, too.

"I'll make it up to you," he said, brushing past me.

He didn't kiss me goodbye.

I watched the elevator doors close on his face.

He was already typing on his phone, a small smile playing on his lips.

He wasn't going to work.

He was going to celebrate.

Just not with me.

I walked back to the kitchen and took the dry roast out of the oven.

I dumped it directly into the trash can.

Then I went to the bathroom and opened the cabinet.

I took out the pregnancy test I had bought earlier that day.

I hadn't used it yet.

I stared at the unsealed box.

A plan began to form in the cold, dark corners of my mind.

I wasn't going to be the supportive wife anymore.

I wasn't going to be the anchor that held him steady while he drifted away.

If he wanted a storm, I would become the hurricane.