1

Slap!

As my mother-in-law Dora's heavy hand collides with my face, a searing pain shoots through my cheek, jolting my head to the side. A surge of redness flushes my skin, intensifying the agony. 

Struggling to maintain my balance, I stumble backward, eventually collapsing onto the softness of the bed behind me. Instinctively, my hand darts to my throbbing cheek, the pain radiating through every fiber of my being.

"You pathetic excuse for a woman," she sneers, her words dripping with contempt. "My son's birthday is in two days, and you dare to show such incompetence by not having the party prepared?"

She towers above me, her presence intimidating. Dora embodies the essence of Italian aristocracy, her tall, slender figure accentuated by a sharp nose and angular features.

"I've hired a party planner," I retort.

"As a Banks, you should be capable of organizing a celebration yourself!" Her words are laced with venom, each syllable dripping with disdain as she delivers her cutting remark. 

"Yes, Dora. I am sorry," I reply, forcing a tight smile to conceal my frustration. "I will be sure to organize the next party entirely on my own." 

With an air of superiority, she turns on her heel and marches out of the room, her footsteps reverberating loudly against the polished marble floor. "For heaven's sake, what possessed my Ethan to marry you?"

I am left standing there, feeling the weight of her scorn like a heavy chain around my neck. Despite my best efforts to brush off her cruel remarks, they linger like a dark cloud over my already troubled mind.

I know what I did to be treated like this, I just don't know if they will ever forgive me.

As her footsteps fade into the distance, leaving behind an oppressive silence, the doubt festers, twisting my stomach into knots.

I let out a heavy sigh, feeling the weight of Dora's departure settling over me like a suffocating blanket. With a resigned sense of duty, I lower myself to the floor and reach beneath the bed, my fingers fumbling in the darkness until they brush against something cool and solid. 

Drawing it out into the muted light filtering through the curtains, I am met with the sight of Ethan's birthday gift: a meticulously crafted miniature racing car.

As I hold the miniature car in my hands, a rush of excitement floods over me, momentarily dispelling the heaviness of Dora's departure. In just two days, she'll be on her way back to Italy, leaving me to revel in the solitude of our lavish apartment once more.

Dora and her husband travel a lot. They barely stay in the country. I confess that it is a relief.

With eager anticipation, I examine the intricately crafted details of the car, marveling at how perfectly it captures Ethan's love for speed and adventure. Each sleek curve and polished finish is a testament to his passion, and I can't wait to see the delight on his face when he unwraps his birthday present.

He's one of the world's most famous race car drivers, and this gift will surely suit him well.

Ding.

The elevator reaches the penthouse. 

Ethan has arrived!

I bolt out of the room, heart pounding with anticipation. It's been weeks since he's been traveling, and I can barely remember the last time he was home. But this time, he's here for the entire week.

I cling to the hope that he'll have some time for me amidst his busy schedule of training, working out, racing, or attending meetings. 

Despite having to endure Dora's presence, I know it will all be worth it if Ethan can just spare me a moment of his attention.

As I hasten toward the living room, a woman's voice pierces the air, causing me to halt in my tracks.

"Are you certain your wife won't object?" The sound of her voice is accompanied by the subtle fragrance of sweet perfume, swirling through the house like a haunting melody. 

My steps falter, and I instinctively retreat into the shadows of the hallway, heart pounding with unease.

"This isn't her fucking house, it's mine. And you're here at my invitation," he retorts.

This isn't my home?

I look down at the tiny racing car clutched in my trembling hands. Ethan Banks, the esteemed Formula 1 driver, holds the keys to this extravagant place, while I am nothing more than his trophy wife, a mere adornment to his illustrious life. 

That's all I am, in his eyes and in the eyes of the world.

"But I am your ex-girlfriend. People might gossip..." The woman's words, laden with insinuation, pierce through the air like icy shards, lodging themselves deep within my heart. "Forget it. I am just another guest, as you said. Is there a spare room for me?"

Ex-girlfriend?

So, that voice belonged to... Mariah Donovan? I remember her perfectly. The mere thought of her stirring up a potent blend of jealousy and insecurity within me. 

Yet, despite my silent fears, I trusted Ethan's assurances that Mariah was a relic of the past. All I ever demanded was his fidelity, and he swore to uphold it, even if I didn't deserve it....

"I will have one arranged," Ethan replies tersely.

The footsteps gradually recede into the distance, leaving behind an eerie silence that echoes through the corridors.

My heart twists in agony as the betrayal unfolds before me. Tears blur my vision as I stagger backward, my hand sliding down the wall for support. 

"Baby... can I ask you for something?" Mariah's voice, tinged with a hint of vulnerability, reaches my ears like a knife twisting in my gut. "It's pouring outside, and the thunder scares me. Could I sleep in your room tonight? I will make do with just a sheet on the floor."

I feel the impulse to dash towards them and declare that no, Mariah will never sleep in Ethan's bed again. It's been years since I've been on Ethan's side of the bed. I used to before, but not after marriage, not after what I did.

"You don't have to fret. There's space for you in the bed," he reassures, and with those words, I hear his footsteps climbing the stairs.