Page 99 of Six Month Wife

He gives a slow, knowing nod. “Ah, the wife. Yes, of course.”

He claps me on the shoulder. “Try to let me know something tomorrow, if not sooner. Everything is sort of hanging until we know if we need to go on a national search for Peterson's replacement. Having you would be the best, but if we can't have you, we need to pivot quickly.”

As he walks off, I pull out my phone to text Adair.

You around tonight? Need your advice. Big time.

(Also might need champagne. Again.)

I slip my phone back into my pocket, heart still thudding from the adrenaline, but steady now.

This isn't about a promotion. Not anymore.

It’s about where I go from here—and who I’m bringing with me.

27

Adair

The mop bucketsqueaks as I drag it across the front tile of Citrine. The hum of the refrigerator is the only sound left in the building.

I could’ve gone home hours ago. I should’ve. But scrubbing lemon-scented streaks into the floor feels oddly satisfying tonight. It's almost like maybe if I make everything spotless out here, I can clean up the mess in my head, too.

I prop the mop against the counter and wipe my hands on a towel, walking back behind the register where my laptop is still open.

Rose’s voice echoes from the speakers, sing-song and sparkly as ever.

"You guys. This is not a drill. This scrub is heaven in a jar.”

The screen shows her poolside, mimosa in one hand, my Sea Breeze Exfoliating Scrub in the other. Her skin is glowing, her teeth are perfect, and she saysmy namein thecaption like I’m some luxury brand she discovered on a girls’ trip to Bali.

I click into her next reel. Holy shit, it's up to four million views and still counting. In awe, I watch as she spritzes my Lavender Bliss Face Mist on her marble vanity like it’s part of her birthright.

It’s polished. Strategic. Addicting.

And for a second, I forget I got humiliated in print this morning.

Okay, no. That’s a lie. I didn’t forget.

Ishifted, like I always do.

Some people spiral. I schedule deliveries, build pitch decks, and deep-clean grout like my future depends on it. Because maybe it does.

And maybe I owe a twisted thank-you to Leeland Matthews. Not for the article, or for being the world's biggest jackass, but for the reminder. No matter how much I want to believe in the fantasy Parker is selling me, that’s all it ever was. A fantasy.

I believe he sincerely believes it, in this moment. But I see the writing on the wall. I know this will never survive this level of scrutiny right out of the gate.

Last night, I let myself forget. I let myself hope. But Parker’s world is never going to let someone like me stick.

He says he’ll handle it, that it’ll blow over. But damage like that doesn’t disappear, and I can’t be the one dragging him down every time his name is in the news.

So I do the only thing I know how. I work. I move forward. I keep building.

It’s me. And it has to be.

Even if my chest aches like I’ve ripped something vital out of it.

We told each other the truth this morning. He’s got hispath. I’ve got mine. And they don’t have to run side by side because we happen to have great sex.