IN LOVE WITH MY BOSS'S WIFE

ZIBA'S NEIGHBOURHOOD AND HOME

The morning sunlight streamed through the large bay windows of Ziba’s bedroom, painting golden patterns on the polished wooden floor. Her room was spacious, with soft cream-coloured walls and a neatly arranged bookshelf filled with novels she had collected over the years. A large bed sat in the centre, covered in a plush lilac comforter, and a walk-in closet occupied an entire corner of the room, filled with a mix of designer pieces and casual wear.

It wasn’t a billionaire’s palace, but it was home. A comfortable, well-furnished mansion in a quiet, upper-middle-class neighbourhood where every house had trimmed lawns, paved driveways, and backyard pools.

The scent of fresh toast and eggs wafted through the air, mingling with the soft aroma of jasmine from the candles her mother always placed in the hallway.

Ziba lay still, her body was unwilling to rise just yet gentle knock on the door broke the morning silence.

“Ziba darling, wake up or you’ll be late for school.” Miriam Vida, the most reliable wake up call Ziba had ever known was here.

Five more minutes mama, she covered the duvet over her body, then suddenly the door burst open, "Ziba, it's your first day at your new school, surely you don't want to be late?" Her mother warned, reluctantly, she dragged herself out of bed and stretched lazily before she gave her mum a hug, and then she went to wash in the bathroom.

"Come downstairs for breakfast when you're done, honey "

"Okay mama'

Ziba finished her breakfast, but the lingering tension in the air made it hard to enjoy. Her mother’s reassuring words were meant to be comforting, but they only highlighted the invisible walls closing in around her.

She loved their home, it was spacious, well-furnished, and elegant. But there was something suffocating about it too. The silence, the absence of warmth and the way everything felt staged.

Her father had designed the mansion to impress, not to be lived in. Every expensive painting on the walls, every imported furniture piece was a statement of wealth, but none of it felt personal. Not like the cozy homes she imagined, homes filled with laughter, with family dinners that weren’t just a mother and daughter pretending everything was fine.

She pushed her plate away and stood up.

“I should get ready.”

Miriam nodded, giving her a small smile. “Lorna already packed your lunch. And Ziba try not to let them get to you today.”

Ziba forced another smile. “I’ll be fine, Mama.”

Ziba walked to her bedroom, passing the grand hallway lined with gold-trimmed mirrors. She paused in front of one, staring at her reflection.

Her long dark hair was neatly styled into a ponytail, her features delicate but striking. Her outfit was well put together, not trendy and not extravagant. She looked just normal.

But normal didn’t fit in at Westbridge Academy.

Westbridge was a different world. It was an elite high school filled with the children of billionaires, politicians, and celebrities. Their parents owned private islands. They vacationed in the Maldives on a whim. They drove brand-new sports cars before even getting their licenses.

And then there was her, a middle-class comfortable girl. But not one of them.

She grabbed her simple backpack and left her room.

On her way downstairs, she heard her mother’s voice in the living room, speaking quietly into her phone.

Ziba paused at the top of the staircase, listening.

“Yes, sir, I understand. No, I’ll have the reports completed by noon.” Miriam’s voice was calm, professional. But there was something else, she was tired. “Yes, I know the presentation is important. I promise it will be ready.”

A short silence, then a forced chuckle. “Thank you for understanding, Mr. Lawson. Have a great day.”

The call ended, and Ziba peered over the railing. Her mother sat on the couch, rubbing her temples.

She was a financial consultant for an investment firm—a good job, a respected one. But Ziba knew the truth.

Her mother worked twice as hard as her male colleagues just to get half the recognition. She pulled late nights, handled difficult clients, and bent over backwards just to prove she was good enough.

All while holding their family together.

Ziba clenched her fists, her father should have been the one supporting her mother. He should have been there, easing her burdens, making things easier.

Instead, he was out there somewhere, spending money on other women.

She hugged her mother and then turned to leave.

"Not so fast, young woman" her mother called.

She turned back to see her mother grabbing her car keys, "You didn't think I'd let my baby go to school alone, did you?"

But mother, you're late for your appointment, she queried.

Not too late to drop my only girl at school on her first day, even on the 30th day. Come on, let's go. They left for her car.

Ziba sat in the passenger seat of her mother’s modest sedan, her fingers gripping the strap of her bag tightly. The faint scent of lavender air freshener mixed with the remnants of the morning’s coffee, a smell she had grown used to over the years.

The hum of the engine filled the silence as they pulled out of their driveway and onto the road.

Her mother, Miriam, glanced at her. “You’re awfully quiet.”

Ziba forced a small smile. “Just thinking.”

“Baby, what are you thinking about?”

She hesitated. How could she put her thoughts into words? That she felt like she was being thrown into a world where she didn’t fit into? That she wasn’t ready for the judgment, the whispers, the inevitable feeling of being an outsider?

She looked down at her hands. “It’s my first day Mum, in a new school, and a fancy one at that. What if I don’t fit in? I prefer my old school”

Miriam sighed, her fingers tightening around the steering wheel. “Ziba, listen to me.” Her voice was gentle but firm. “You are smart, kind and you are more than enough. Do you hear me?”

Ziba swallowed. “Okay, mum.”

“I mean it.” Miriam’s eyes softened. “These kids may have more money, but that doesn’t make them better than you.”

Ziba nodded, but deep down, she wasn’t sure she believed that.

The streets blurred past as they drove. Mansions lined the neighbourhoods, massive estates with high gates and towering palm trees, each one more extravagant than the last.

Her old school had been different. A private high school with a mix of students from all backgrounds. There she had blended in, but here, she feared she would stand out.

Her mother must have sensed her unease because she reached over and squeezed her hand. “It’s going to be okay.”

Ziba exhaled. “I hope so.”

“It will be.” Miriam smiled. “And who knows? You might even make a friend or two.”

Ziba gave a half-hearted chuckle. “Or ten enemies.”

“Ziba.”

“I’m joking.”

As they neared the school, Ziba’s stomach twisted into knots.

The parking lot was packed with luxury vehicles, sleek sports cars, custom SUVs, and chauffeur-driven sedans.

A Rolls-Royce pulled in ahead of them, the tinted windows so dark she couldn’t see who was inside.

A red Ferrari was parked near the entrance, its gleaming body reflecting the morning sun.

A group of students gathered beside a matte-black Lamborghini, chatting like it was just another ordinary day.

Ziba stared, her fingers tightening around her bag.

Her mother’s car was just a simple reliable Toyota and it felt painfully out of place.

Miriam noticed her silence and sighed. “Don’t let the cars intimidate you, darling.”

Ziba let out a dry laugh. “Easier said than done.”

Her mother pulled into an empty spot, cutting the engine. “Ziba, look at me.”

She turned.

“You are going to walk in there with your head held high. You belong here just as much as anyone else.”

Ziba bit her lip. “I don’t feel like I do.”

Miriam reached over, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her daughter’s ear. “You will.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Miriam sighed and smiled. “Now, go show them what you’re made of.”

Ziba inhaled deeply, placed her hand on the door handle, and stepped out.