Chapter Four – The Wife Arrives
The next morning, I didn't bother pretending anymore.
Every step I took into that building, every click of my heels across marble, was a declaration. People could whisper all they wanted. They already were. I wasn't here to douse flames—I was here to pour gasoline.
My blouse today was cream silk, soft against my skin, sheer enough to hint without revealing. The skirt was black, fitted, cut just high enough to tempt. The kind of outfit that walked the razor edge of office-appropriate and indecent. I knew the line. And I knew exactly how to dance on it.
I wanted Julian to burn.
When I passed his office, I slowed my pace deliberately, sliding a folder under my arm so my chest pressed forward. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his gaze lift from his desk. Just a flicker. But it landed right where I wanted it to.
My pulse quickened. Score one.
A few hours later, I had an excuse—dropping a report on his desk. He sat back in his chair, posture commanding, but I knew what to look for now. His jaw tightened the moment I leaned down to place the file in front of him, my blouse gaping just enough. His eyes dropped, then snapped back up to my face like a man fighting for his life.
I didn't move away immediately. Instead, I slid sideways past his chair, close—too close. My hip brushed against his arm. And lower… oh, I felt it.
The air between us thickened. For a fraction of a second, I froze, savoring it: the hard evidence of what he'd been trying so hard to hide, pressing against his tailored pants. He inhaled sharply, almost imperceptibly, like his body betrayed him faster than his will could.
I straightened slowly, lips curving into a smile I didn't let him see.
He cleared his throat, voice rough. "That'll be all, Amira."
But the crack in his voice gave him away.
The gossip was already everywhere.
By midday, I could feel eyes following me like a current. When I returned from lunch, two interns glanced at me, then at each other, one smirking, the other wide-eyed like they'd just stumbled into a secret they weren't old enough to hear.
"She's bold," someone whispered as I walked past. Another voice, dripping envy: "It's only a matter of time before she's out."
But then there were the others—the ones who spoke with hushed awe, like I was doing what they only dreamed of. "She's got him hooked. You can see it."
I let it all wash over me. Envy, jealousy, shock, fascination. Every reaction only confirmed the truth: I was becoming the story of this office. And Julian Archer—the untouchable, perfect Julian—was part of my story now.
Of course Margaret wasn't about to let that stand.
I spotted her by the elevators, whispering to two associates, her lips curled into that superior little sneer. Her words drifted toward me, sharp enough to cut.
"She thinks she's clever. It's pathetic, really. Sleeping her way into relevance. A secretary playing with fire."
One of the associates murmured something back, but Margaret laughed softly, like she knew she'd planted the seed.
I held my head high, pretending not to hear, though my blood simmered. Margaret could drip venom all she wanted—she was just another sign I was winning.
The tension only grew in the late afternoon team briefing. The conference room was full, papers rustling, pens clicking. I sat opposite Julian, close enough to watch him without anyone noticing.
I crossed my legs slowly under the table, dragging one heel along the side of my calf, letting the skirt ride just enough. His eyes flickered down—just for a second—before jerking back to the presentation on the screen.
I hid my smile.
Half an hour later, when I leaned forward to pass him a note, my blouse shifted, and I didn't miss the way his throat bobbed. His hand clenched around his pen so tightly it almost snapped.
He licked his lips. Quickly. Like he thought no one noticed.
But I noticed everything.
By the time the meeting ended, Margaret's smirk was razor sharp. She'd caught it too. I could see the satisfaction on her face, like she finally had proof to confirm all her little whispers.
As the room cleared, she cornered me near the doorway, her voice low but slicing through the air. "You really think this ends well for you, don't you?"
I raised a brow, cool. "I think you should worry less about me and more about keeping up with the times. Your grip is slipping."
Her eyes flashed, and for a moment I thought she might slap me again right there in front of everyone. Instead, she smiled thinly. "Careful, darling. When men like Julian are done playing, they don't even remember your name."
I leaned in, close enough for only her to hear. "Funny. He remembers mine just fine."
Her face blanched, but before she could snap back, Julian's voice cut through.
"Margaret. Amira."
We both stiffened, turning to see him standing just down the hall. His expression was carefully neutral, but his eyes betrayed him—stormy, unsettled, flickering between us.
And of course, everyone else in the hall noticed too.
Whispers rippled immediately. A junior assistant all but ran to tell someone else, and I knew what the office would be buzzing with by tomorrow morning: the secretary, the boss, and the senior partner locked in some kind of triangle.
Margaret gave me a smug, poisonous smile, like she thought the rumors would ruin me.
But as Julian's gaze lingered on me, unable to fully mask the fire in it, I knew the opposite was true.
I turned, hips swaying, and walked away, letting every pair of eyes follow me.
I didn't just feel the scandal anymore.
I was the scandal.
The next morning, the office buzzed louder than a hive.
I felt it the moment I stepped through the glass doors—the way eyes followed me, the way conversations stalled just long enough to let me know my name was on their tongues. The slap, the gossip, the way Julian had looked at me yesterday—it had all snowballed into one great spectacle.
I didn't flinch. I wanted them to talk. Let them choke on it.
Today I chose power dressing in crimson: silk blouse tucked into a pencil skirt that hit my knees but hugged like sin, with heels sharp enough to cut glass. Every click against the marble echoed like a warning shot.
At my desk, I shuffled the files Julian needed for his morning calls, then made the walk I knew everyone was watching. His door was open, and when I leaned in, he was there—perfect posture, dark tie, hazel eyes snapping up the second I entered.
"Your reports," I said, setting the stack down.
Our fingers brushed, electric. His jaw tightened, eyes darting down and back up like he hated himself for it. I leaned forward just slightly, letting my perfume linger.
And that's when the door opened.
"Julian!"
The voice was bright, familiar enough to sting. I straightened quickly as a woman glided in—tall, polished, in a cream trench and heels that screamed money. In her hand: a sleek lunch bag from that bistro across town I couldn't afford on my best payday.
My stomach twisted. His wife.
She moved straight toward him, smile wide, her hair pinned in glossy waves, her diamond ring catching the office light. I didn't need an introduction to know who she was. The air in the room thickened instantly.
Julian froze for half a second, caught between us, before stepping forward. "Amira," he said, voice careful, "this is my wife, Cassandra."
Cassandra. Even her name sounded expensive.
I turned, every nerve screaming, and plastered on the smile I kept for clients who insulted me to my face. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
Her gaze skimmed me from head to toe like she was assessing a threat. The corners of her lips lifted, but it didn't reach her eyes. "The secretary, right?"
Julian shifted, almost imperceptibly, but I caught it. He didn't like her phrasing. That made two of us.
"Yes," I said sweetly. "Julian depends on me for… a lot."
Her eyes narrowed. Just slightly. Score one, Amira.
The silence stretched a beat too long before Julian cleared his throat. "Amira, thank you for the files. That'll be all."
I held Cassandra's gaze a moment longer before smoothing my skirt and nodding. "Of course."
As I walked out, I could feel her eyes burning into my back, measuring me, trying to place me in some neat, dismissible box. Too bad I'd already stepped out of it.
Back at my desk, I replayed every second. Cassandra was gorgeous, no denying it. Her presence filled a room like polished marble: pristine, untouchable, cold. She was the kind of woman magazines wanted on covers—sharp, immaculate, the picture of control.
And yet…
I'd seen the flicker in Julian's eyes when she called me "the secretary." The flash of irritation. The way his body tensed when we stood too close.
Whatever Cassandra thought she had locked down, the cracks were already there.
That night, my apartment lit up with the laughter and chatter of my girls. Wine glasses clinked, the scent of takeout filled the air, and the conversation spiraled, as always, back to Julian.
"So," Lila demanded, topping off her glass, "tell us everything. What's the wife like?"
"Perfect," I muttered, sinking back into the couch. "The kind of perfect that makes you want to find something wrong just to prove she's human."
Camille snorted. "Please. Nobody's perfect. Was she nice, at least?"
I gave a bitter laugh. "Nice like a cobra with lipstick."
That got a chorus of gasps and giggles.
"She sized me up the second she walked in," I added, sipping my wine. "Didn't even try to hide it. Called me 'the secretary' like I was furniture."
Lila leaned forward, eyes glittering. "And what did you do?"
"I smiled. And reminded her that Julian depends on me for a lot."
The table erupted in shrieks and laughter, Camille nearly spilling her drink.
"Amira!" she scolded between laughs. "You didn't."
"Oh, I did," I said, grinning now. "I wasn't about to shrink for her. Not when she walked in marking territory like a dog."
"Good," Lila said firmly, raising her glass. "Because listen, wives only have power if you let them intimidate you. At the end of the day, men are men. And men are weak."
Camille frowned, always the cautious one. "Careful. Wives are wives for a reason. If you're not careful, you'll be the one out in the cold while she keeps the ring."
The mood shifted slightly, the warning sinking in, but I shook my head. "Maybe. But she felt the tension. I saw it in her eyes. She knows something's there, even if she doesn't want to admit it."
For a moment, silence. Then Lila raised her glass again, her tone dramatic, theatrical. "To Amira. To not backing down from a queen bee with a diamond crown."
We clinked glasses, the laughter returning, the room buzzing with wine-fueled bravado. But later, when I lay in bed, the bravado thinned into something else.
I thought about Cassandra's eyes, sharp and assessing. I thought about Julian's silence, his throat clearing as if trying to scrub the air clean of what she'd walked in on.
And I thought about the way Cassandra looked at me like I was a threat she hadn't planned for.
Competition didn't scare me.
It made me hungrier.
The morning after Cassandra's visit, I woke up sharper than a blade. Sleep had been restless, haunted by the echo of her diamond ring catching the light, but when I slid into my crimson skirt and pinned my hair up high, I reminded myself: I wasn't built to retreat.
The office looked the same, smelled the same, buzzed the same—but I knew it wasn't. Once a wife walks into enemy territory, things never stay the same.
Julian's door was open. He was already there, posture carved in stone, sleeves rolled to his elbows as he typed. My heels slowed as I passed, and I caught it—the flicker of his eyes over the rim of his glasses, the pause in his typing.
Still mine, whether Cassandra knew it or not.
That's when I heard it.
"Careful, Amira," a voice chirped, too sweet to be sweet. "Don't spill coffee on Mr. Archer's very important reports."
I turned.
It was Elaine. Bookish, plain Elaine—brown cardigan, glasses too big for her face, hair always scraped back like she had a vendetta against conditioner. The kind of woman I'd never given a second thought to, because she seemed allergic to eyeliner and drama.
But now she was smiling at me with a little curve of sarcasm on her lips.
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
She shrugged, lifting a stack of folders. "Just saying. You seem… distracted lately. Wouldn't want to ruin anything important."
The way she emphasized "important" made my teeth grit.
I smiled, cool as ice. "Don't worry about me, Elaine. I don't spill."
Her smirk said she didn't believe me. Or maybe she just wanted me to think she didn't.
Interesting.
By midmorning, I found out Elaine's sudden tongue wasn't a fluke. Every time I went near Julian's office, there she was.
"Oh, Mr. Archer, I already handled that."
"Oh, Amira, no need—I passed him the files."
"Oh, did you need to see him? He's very busy."
She fluttered around like a nervous pigeon, acting "helpful," but really she was planting herself like a wall between me and him.
At first, it was almost funny. Elaine? Really? She was about as threatening as a paperclip. But the more she hovered, the more I realized: she wasn't doing this blindly. She knew something. She'd picked up on the tension, the looks, the gossip, and suddenly she wanted to be a part of it.
It was pathetic. And irritating.
That irritation melted the moment a familiar voice rang out across the hallway.
"Amira!"
I spun and nearly squealed. "Tasha?"
She was striding toward me in a plaid blazer and hoop earrings, her curls bouncing, her grin as wide as ever. Tasha was back.
She'd been out on leave for weeks, and now here she was, arms open, smelling like coconut and trouble. I hugged her tight before she pulled back, eyes already sparkling.
"Okay, listen," she said, dropping her voice. "I've been gone five minutes, and people are talking like this place turned into a damn soap opera. What did I miss?"
I laughed, tension easing instantly. "You want the tea?"
"Girl, I want the whole kettle. Don't play with me."
I smirked, leaning closer. "Let's grab lunch. You're not ready for this in the hallway."
Over salad bowls in the café downstairs, I spilled it. The gossip, the slap, the kiss, the wife showing up with lunch. Tasha listened with her mouth hanging open, then clapped her hand over her heart like she was in church.
"Amira! Lord have mercy. I leave for a couple weeks and you're out here living a telenovela."
"Don't start," I muttered, sipping my drink.
"Oh, I am starting," she said, pointing her fork. "First of all, this Margaret woman needs to be put in retirement. Second, Julian's wife? What's her name again?"
"Cassandra."
"Of course it is. Cassandra. Sounds like a perfume line at Macy's. Anyway—did she look at you like she wanted to kill you?"
I grinned. "She smiled. But her eyes? If looks could kill, I'd have been buried in the parking lot."
Tasha laughed so loud the table next to us stared. "And you didn't flinch?"
"Not a chance."
She shook her head, chuckling. Then her face sobered. "But listen, girl. This is getting dangerous. He's your boss. He's married. That's a double shot of messy, and you're about to be the main course at office gossip hour for the rest of the year."
I leaned back, chin high. "Let them talk."
Tasha gave me that look—the one that was equal parts admiration and concern. "You've got guts, Amira. Just… don't let them eat you alive."
Back upstairs, Elaine was waiting like a shadow. I had a memo Julian asked for, and I strode toward his office, ready to hand it over personally.
But before I could reach the door, Elaine slipped out of nowhere, snatching it from my hand. "I'll give it to him."
I stared at her, stunned. "Excuse me?"
She blinked innocently. "Oh, I didn't want to bother you. You seem so… busy."
Her tone dripped fake sweetness.
I plastered on a smile. "Don't worry, Elaine. This one's special. Mr. Archer asked me to bring it directly."
Her face flickered, just slightly, before she handed it back with a forced smile. "Of course. Go right ahead."
When I stepped inside, Julian looked up from his desk. His eyes moved from me to the memo, then to the open door behind me where Elaine hovered.
Something dark flickered in his gaze. He knew.
"Thank you," he said softly, his voice rough.
Our eyes locked for a long second, and I felt it again—that pull, that heat coiling in my stomach.
Then Elaine coughed. Loudly. Still standing in the doorway like a guard.
Julian's expression shifted back to neutral, his hand tightening around the papers. "That'll be all, Amira."
I turned, slow and deliberate, and met Elaine's eyes as I walked out. She smirked like she'd won a round.
But all I could think was: little plain Elaine wanted a fight she wasn't built for.
By the end of the day, whispers swirled louder than ever. Cassandra's visit was still the talk of the office, Margaret was stirring like a queen bee, and now Elaine had joined the circus, fluttering like she mattered.
At my desk, Tasha leaned over, grinning. "Girl, you've got half this office shook. And that assistant? She's thirsty."
"Pathetic," I muttered, but my lips curved anyway.
Because when I looked up, Julian was watching from across the hall, his lips parted, his eyes burning like he couldn't stand another second.
Elaine followed his gaze, smirking again.
And that's when it hit me—she thought she had a chance.
I almost laughed out loud.
She could try all she wanted.
He was already mine.