Cheaters Wives Club: Pay Up Sweetheart

People say money can’t buy happiness, but those people have clearly never gotten a $30,000 necklace from their cheating husband, trying to say sorry after accidentally sending “Can’t wait to taste you again” to you instead of his mistress. I smiled as I clipped the diamond necklace around my neck, watching how it sparkled under the lights in my walk-in closet. Not a bad trade for betrayal. Not bad at all. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t proud of this life. Being Vanessa Stark, the billionaire wife of Charles Stark, was supposed to mean glamour, power, maybe even a little fun. I thought I’d be relaxing on yachts, learning French from a hot tutor. Instead, I was drinking cold coffee alone while Charles “accidentally” booked two tickets to Milan, one for him and his assistant, and one for me to stay home and babysit his overpriced bonsai trees. But over time, I learned how to survive. More than that I learned how to smile through the tears, put on heels, and steal the spotlight. And today, I had a show to put on. “Mrs. Stark?” our housekeeper, Lucia, said from the doorway. “Your driver is ready.” I nodded and gave her a soft smile. “Thank you, Lucia. Tell him I’ll be down in ten minutes.” As soon as Lucia left, I turned back to the mirror, put on my bold red lipstick, and whispered to myself, “Time to collect some emotional compensation.” Here’s the thing about cheating husbands: they’re easy to predict. But the women they cheat with? That’s where it gets interesting. Most of them already knew about me. I wasn’t hiding. Blogs called me “America’s Most Elegant Tech Wife.” Some even called me “The First Lady of Silicon Valley.” These women weren’t clueless. They knew Charles was married, they just didn’t care. What they didn’t realize was that I wasn’t clueless either. It all started six months ago. I was on my phone, wondering if I should buy yet another candle I didn’t need, when an email popped up. From: Candice A. Subject: Please don’t ruin me. I blinked, then opened it. I had to read the first line twice. > “Mrs. Stark, please, I didn’t know he was married at first. I swear. I’ve stopped seeing Charles. Please don’t show up at my work again…” What? I hadn’t even heard of this Candice person, let alone visited her workplace. But she was clearly terrified and guilty enough to imagine things and desperate enough to beg. And in that moment, sitting on my balcony in silk pajamas, sipping a warm oat milk latte, something clicked inside me. Not anger, but strategy. If she was this scared, what would she pay to stay out of trouble? The next day, I put on my nicest smile, tallest heels, and met her at a luxury spa in Beverly Hills. She walked in wearing huge sunglasses like she was hiding from cameras. Sweetheart, you’re an HR intern, not Beyoncé. But I didn’t say that out loud. “Vanessa,” she said nervously, playing with her phone. I smiled warmly. “Relax. I’m not here to throw a drink at you. We’re grown women, not on a reality show.” She gave a nervous laugh, and I gently slid a white folder across the table. Inside: a non-disclosure agreement and a polite offer $30,000 to keep quiet, stay away, and disappear. Her hands shook as she signed it. And later that day, when I checked my account? Boom. Thirty grand, wired without a word. My hands trembled too, but not from fear, but from power. That’s when everything made sense; I could keep crying alone in my bathtub every night, or I could start charging these women like a boss. I chose the boss route. Now? It’s my little side business. One mistress after another, beautiful, dressed in designer clothes, and hiding dirty secrets. All of them are afraid of me, and are all willing to pay to keep their names and reputations clean. Raquel, an i********: model with more filters than brains, sent me forty grand and a bouquet of apology roses. Even Mia, a bold little makeup artist who proudly wore Charles’ Rolex like it was hers, gave me twenty-five grand and promised to block him for good. Gina was the trickiest. She tried to act tough. That is, until I casually showed her a blurry photo of her and Charles at a hotel bar. Two days later, she coughed up fifty grand. I wasn’t just collecting money, I was collecting power and respect. Now, back to today. I got into my black SUV, gave my driver a smile, and texted my best friend Yara: Me: On my way to therapy. AKA picking up Gina’s final payment. Manifesting more guilt money. Yara: Treat yourself, babe. And tax her sins. God, I loved that woman. My destination is a small boutique café where Gina agreed to meet me. Last time we met, she called me ice queen Barbie. I almost thanked her, but instead, I told her, “Call me whatever you like. Just spell my name right on the bank transfer.” She was already there when I arrived, wearing sunglasses, and her latte untouched. “Gina,” I said, giving her a polite nod. “Vanessa.” She raised her cup like we were old friends. I sat down, handed her an envelope with a receipt. She slid a prepaid card across the table. I admired the sparkly edges and tucked it into my purse like a coupon. “Same rules,” I said calmly. “You disappear, I disappear.” She nodded, her lips tight. “Oh,” I added, sipping my cappuccino, “and if I see you anywhere near my husband again, I’ll destroy your social life with one i********: story. You know I can.” Gina’s lip twitched. “Got it.” I smiled and stood up. “Good,” I said and walked away. By noon, I was back in my secret office, a cozy little studio downtown that looked like it came straight off Pinterest. Soft pink walls, a glass desk, and a vision board filled with fabric samples and colorful sticky notes. This was my space and little my escape. Yara was already there, spinning in her chair and munching on Cheetos. “Did you get the money?” she asked, her eyes shining happily. “Right on time,” I said, tossing the prepaid card onto the desk. She clapped her hands. “You, my friend, are the Robin Hood of cheating scandals.” I laughed. “Nope. Just a rich wife who got tired of crying and decided to start billing people for wasting her time.” The money wasn’t just about revenge, it was the start of something bigger. I have had real goals since college. I wanted to start a luxury loungewear brand for classy women like me, who were done, and tired of pretending. I imagined silk robes, stylish slippers, and candles that smelled like peace, and women sipping champagne in the tub like queens. And now? It was becoming real. Each settlement paid for something, a new sewing machine, a freelancer, and these were the steps toward building my dream with one mistress at a time. “Do you ever feel bad?” Yara asked. “About what?” I looked up at her. “Taking money from women who were used, just like you.” I paused, then shook my head. “If you sleep with a married man for clout and free meals, you’re not like me. You’re part of the problem.” She nodded. “True. Still, damn. You’re savage.” I smiled. “Not savage, but free. There’s a big difference.” That evening, Charles came home earlier than usual, whistling like a happy puppy. He handed me a small Cartier shopping bag. “Thought of you today, darling.” Inside was a velvet box with a gold bracelet. Our anniversary date was engraved in Roman numerals. Cute, right? Except our anniversary was two weeks ago. He forgot. “Thank you,” I said sweetly. “It’s beautiful.” He kissed my cheek. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.” I almost laughed. Not out loud, but just in my head. But it echoed through me like a scream. Because while he stood there feeling proud for gifting me stolen love wrapped in luxury, I sat there in a silk robe… paid for by one of his mistresses. Poetic, isn’t it? That night, I lay in bed with the bracelet on my wrist and my laptop on my lap. I opened my financial tracker. My side account, Sitting pretty at $512,450. Tomorrow, I’d sign a deal with a boutique distributor. By summer, my brand would launch. And by fall, I’d be richer than Charles’ ego. He’d still think he was spoiling me with his money. I closed my laptop, turned off the lamp, and whispered into the dark, “Keep cheating, baby. Mama’s got bills to pay.”