BEHIND THE PERFECT MARRIAGE: The Billionaire's Dirty Secrets

Anna POV The egg yolk breaks wrong, and somehow that becomes my fault. “This is overcooked.” Natalie stabs at her plate with a fork, her swollen belly pressed against the edge of the dining table — my dining table — while she occupies the chair closest to Dorian’s right hand. The chair I used to sit in. “I want a runny yolk. The doctor specifically said I need proper nutrients right now, and you keep serving me rubber.” I didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. I lifted my own untouched plate, its yolk soft and oozing, and slid it silently across the table toward her. My movements were gentle, deliberate, a performance of obedience I’d honed to perfection. “This one is softer. Try it.” No thank you. Not a glance. She snatched the plate without looking at me, as if I were a servant rather than the woman who still legally owned this house. Dorian is watching me from behind his newspaper, the paper never lowering. I didn’t need to see his face to feel his gaze—heavy, assessing, hungry for any crack in my composure. His silence was louder than any shout. I walk back to the kitchen, crack a fresh egg into the pan, and stand with my back to both of them. My face is completely still. I learned a long time ago that the kitchen is the one place Dorian doesn’t watch as closely. Behind me, I hear him set down his coffee cup. “She’s trying, Natalie., Don’t be so unkind.” he says, and his voice is warm, almost fond. That warmth is the most dangerous thing about him. Natalie's cloyingly sweet voice has completely killed my appetite. Ever since Dorian brought her into this house, I've seen this day coming. Why even get angry? I'd be only too glad to have someone else take my husband off my hands. After Dorian went to his study for an online meeting, Natalie kept pestering me to make her a milkshake. It was nearly noon before I finally got her settled and satisfied, leaving me just enough time to head to the study and take care of some work, when the door swings open without a knock. Natalie sauntered in like she owned the space, like she hadn’t been invited, like she was already measuring the room for new furniture. She picks up a paperweight, and sets it down. Opens a drawer an inch and closes it again. It is the slow, deliberate tour of a woman figuring out how much she can take before someone stops her. She runs her fingers along the edge of my desk, picks up a folder, puts it down, then lifts the framed certificate from the shelf and turns it over in her hands. It’s only an admission notice — a copy, not a degree — but it’s the one thing I chose to frame and keep. “Why would you frame an admission? Did you never actually finish school?” She tilts her head, genuinely puzzled. “I assumed all of Dorian’s people had fancy degrees.You’re supposed to be the brilliant one, aren’t you?” My jaw tightened, but my voice stayed calm, ice-thin. “Put it down, please.” “I’m just asking.” She sets it on the desk instead of back on the shelf, which is deliberate. Everything she does is deliberate. “He always talks about how brilliant you are. I figured there’d be…I don’t know…more certificates.” I take the frame and place it back exactly where it belongs. “I’m still Mrs. Voss. The degree was never the point.” She laughs, soft and dismissive. “Let’s see how long you could occupy that position, alright? She cast one last possessive glance around the study, then sauntered out, leaving the door ajar. I stood frozen in the middle of the room, my hand pressed to the frame. Dorian has taken almost everything from me — my confidence, my money,five years of my life — but he never touched this. Because he never understood what it meant. He thought it was vanity. A woman clinging to an old accomplishment. Since now he owned the woman, why would he care about what the woman wanted? He didn’t know it was a reminder of who I was before I let him near me. **** I find him in the hallway an hour later, and I know from the set of his shoulders that he’s been waiting. “She’s adjusting,” Dorian says, without preamble. “This situation is difficult for her too. I mean, her husband just died, she’s now a widow and we are doing a good thing by, taking her in.” “I know.” I keep my voice even. “I will make sure she feels at home.” “You could be warmer, even for the baby’s sake. You will become a mom after the baby is born, Anna. And no press would ever ask about why we don’t have a baby anymore. Aren’t you happy about this?.” He steps closer, and I make myself hold still. “She notices when you’re cold, Anna. It creates tension in the house.” “I’ll do better.” He studies my face for a long moment, the way he always does, searching for something — resentment, defiance, any crack in the surface. I give him nothing. “You know,” he says, tilting his head, “sometimes I can’t tell if you’re the most understanding woman I’ve ever met, or the most stubborn.” “Maybe I’m both,” I say. He almost smiles. Almost. “That’s what I’ve always liked about you.” The words land like a warning dressed as a compliment, the way everything he says does. “Good.” He touches my cheek once, lightly, “What’s your plan for tomorrow? I'm taking Natalie for her prenatal check-up. Do you want to come along? “Have you forgotten? I've invited several directors' wives over for tea tomorrow. Didn't you say I need to get on well with them lately?” I force a smile and speak in a coquettish tone — Dorian loves it when I talk to him like this. “It’s okay, we can go together next time. After all, as the baby's mother-to-be, you ought to keep a closer eye on how the little one is developing, right?” “Sure.” I breathe out through my nose after he walks away. I have forty-two thousand dollars in a bank account he doesn’t know exists. I have a storage unit three miles from here with two changes of clothes, my real documents, and a burner phone I’ve charged exactly once. I have been building this exit for months, in secret, in fear. Forty-two thousand dollars and a plan. That’s all I am right now. I used to think that surviving meant getting through each day without making a mistake. I know better now. Surviving is not passive. It is work. It is remembering which version of yourself to show in which room, and never letting the two bleed together. Dorian believes I have accepted this life. He has watched me absorb every humiliation — Natalie at my table, Natalie in my study, Natalie growing larger and more comfortable in my home every week — and he has read my stillness as resignation. As surrender. That is the only mistake he has ever made with me. And I have been counting on it for fourteen months. *** That evening, Celeste calls the landline, which she only does when she’s being careful. “Dinner Saturday?” Her voice is bright, casual. It means she has something. “I’ll check with Dorian.” I pause. “I think it should be fine.” “Wonderful. Oh — and I ran into that old classmate of yours. Petra? She looked rough, Anna. And she ran immediately after I called her name. That’s odd. My hand tightens on the receiver. Petra Halden hasn’t spoken to me in six years. Not since she testified against me in the academic review board hearing. Not since she sat across a table from me with her hands folded and told three faculty members that she had watched me copy another student’s research paper with her own eyes. “I don’t care. I even wish for her to rot in hell. You know that, Celeste?” I keep my voice completely neutral. “Alright then, I won’t mention her again. Celeste pauses. “How has Dorian been treating you lately? Does he still lay a hand on you? “Don't worry. He's going to be a father soon and is in a great mood. I don't think he'll lay a hand on me, not while Natalie's around. “That monster should also rot in hell.” Celeste drops her voice. “I couldn’t agree more. Don’t worry, C. I’m trying to get away and I believe that day is coming soon.”