The “Wife”?

Lillian's POV

Michael's expression turns to one of worry, and he rushes forward toward me.

"Lillian, what are you doing here? Why do you look like this?" he asks, sounding almost genuinely worried.

But I can't bring myself to believe his concern is real—not with that woman standing there, looking at me like I'm the impostor here.

Just this morning, I was so excited, filled with hope for our time in Switzerland. But now, all I want is to go home. My expectations haven't come close to reality.

"I came here with the other teachers," I begin quietly. "Our boss arranged a retreat for us. I thought I'd surprise you."

"You should have told me," he says, a hint of impatience edging his voice.

"I wanted it to be a pleasant surprise," I reply, hugging myself against the chill.

"But when I arrived, the receptionist didn't believe I was your wife. She... she laughed at me."

I swallow hard, remembering the sting of humiliation. "She said you were already with your wife in your office. Then security dragged me out."

Michael angrily returns to the hall. I follow quickly.

Inside, the warmth wraps around me. I catch up with Michael at the receptionist's desk, his voice raised in anger.

"Why didn't you allow my wife up?" he demands.

The receptionist glances nervously at Catherine, who stands a few paces behind us. A subtle smile plays at Catherine's lips.

"I'm sorry, sir," the receptionist stammers. "It's just that everyone thought Catherine was your wife. You'd said..."

Before she can finish Michael slams his hands onto the desk with a loud thud, making everyone in the lobby jump. The force of his actions nearly drowns out her words, but I catch the tail end of them.

He claimed Catherine was his wife?

The weight of the realization settles in my chest like a mountain. I glance at Catherine, poised, flawless, her sleek dress fitting perfectly, her makeup immaculate.

This is the kind of woman he wants!

She's everything I'm not—sexy, stunning, and so clearly comfortable in his world. He always told me I was perfect just as I am, that I didn't need expensive clothes or makeup.

"Catherine is not my wife," Michael explodes pulling me from my thoughts. "You threw my wife out of the building!"

"I'm so sorry, sir, I misunderstood. I thought you'd said..."

"You're fired! Pack your things and leave now, or I'll have security throw you out!" Michael interrupts her, voice loud.

The receptionist's face crumbles, her lips trembling as she stumbles away. I feel a pang of guilt for her, but it fades quickly.

"Michael," I call softly.

"Yes, Lillian?" he asks gently.

"Is she the 'wife' your employees are talking about?" I ask, gesturing toward Catherine, who stands a few feet behind us.

"Lillian, it's not like that..."

"I need to hear it from you, is she your wife."

Silence settles over us. I'm waiting for him to say something that will make sense of everything, but all I get is more confusion in his eyes.

"It's just a misunderstanding," Michael says softly. "Catherine Dubois is a famous French interior designer. She's in charge of designing the vacation resort."

I glance at Catherine, whose smile remains in place. It's too practiced, too perfect. She's enjoying this, I think bitterly.

Her calm, confident demeanor only makes this whole situation feel more like a game—one I'm losing.

"Lillian, We're just business partners."

"If you're business partners, why did she call you 'honey'? Why cling so tightly to a married man's arm?" I ask.

Before he can respond, Catherine moves toward me with a surprising speed, pulling me into an unexpected hug.

The sudden warmth of her embrace catches me off guard, and her perfume—vanilla and jasmine—clings to me, suffocating me.

"It's my fault, dear," she says, her French accent now thick and sugary. "I call everyone by such cute names. I've been told it makes me more approachable."

She laughs lightly, but her fingers grip my arm just a bit too tightly.

I freeze, my chest tight with discomfort. I don't pull away, not wanting to make another scene.

"And I am so sorry if touching your husband made you think he is cheating," Catherine continues, "I'm a bit clingy, I do it with everyone, I assure you."

I swallow hard, holding back the urge to snap. Each word she speaks is laced with false sincerity. But I keep my composure.

"You see, Lillian, French women are different from you. They're more open and friendly to everyone." Michael smells

Different from you, he says. I can't help the sting that surges through me. The tone of his voice, casual and dismissive, makes me feel small, like I'm lacking in some way. Is this what he thinks of me?

Micheal notices my discomfort, his expression softening. He steps closer, reaching for my hand, a reassuring gesture that feels too little, too late.

"Lillian, how about we have dinner tonight? I know this hasn't been the warm welcome you expected but let me make it up to you."

"Alright, I'd like that." I reply, trying to hold onto the small comfort his offer brings.

"Good, we'll go to the best place Switzerland has to offer. It'll give us a chance to catch up."

I manage a smile, relieved that he's at least trying to salvage something.

"Can you take me back to the hotel now?'

"No. I can't do that." Micheal's smile falters.