The morning light cut sharp, clinical lines across the polished concrete floor of our apartment. It was the kind of light that tolerated no dust, no clutter, no sign of a life messily lived. It was the perfect light for the perfect life I had so meticulously constructed. From the chrome coffee machine that hummed with quiet efficiency to the single, dramatic orchid on the marble island, everything was a testament to minimalist wealth and curated taste. It was Richard's taste, of course. My own was buried so deep I could barely remember its shape.
I moved through the silence, my bare feet silent on the cold floor. As Jane Doe—or rather, Jane Sterling—my movements were designed to be unobtrusive. I was a soft presence, a gentle hum in the background of my husband's impressive, roaring engine of a life. I wore a simple grey cashmere sweater and jeans, my hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. My face was bare, save for the oversized, non-prescription glasses I wore to soften my features and hide the sharpness in my eyes. The sharpness of Eliza Thorne had no place here.
"Morning, darling," Richard's voice, smooth and confident, preceded him into the kitchen. He was already in a tailored navy suit, the scent of his expensive bergamot and cedar cologne filling the space. He moved like he owned the world, because he was working tirelessly to do just that. He kissed my temple, a fleeting, dry press of lips that was more habit than affection. "Anything burning on the market today?"
"Just your toast," I said, my voice carefully pitched to be light and just a little ditzy. I rescued the sourdough from the toaster, scraping the blackened edges into the sink.
He chuckled, the sound rich and patronizing.
"That's my girl. Always watching out for me."
He took the coffee I offered and moved to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, his back to me as he took a call. This was our morning ritual. I would be his domestic anchor, and he would be the ship, preparing to sail into the stormy seas of corporate warfare. I began to tidy the already immaculate space, my movements slow and deliberate, but my ears were tuned to his conversation. He was in the final stages of a negotiation with a logistics firm, a deal that would either make or break his company's quarterly projections.
"…No, I agree, Kenji, the upfront cost is steep, but the long-term savings are there. If we lock in the rate at 4.8% for the full five years, we'll be insulated from market volatility," Richard argued, his voice tight with stress.
I stilled, my hand hovering over a stray newspaper. 4.8%? My mind, the real one, the one that could calculate complex derivatives before my first cup of coffee, whirred to life. No. He's not factoring in the latest fuel-levy projections from the APAC region. The volatility he's trying to avoid is the one thing that would benefit him. A floating rate, capped at 6%, would be far more advantageous. He's leaving millions on the table out of fear.
Richard was smart, but his ambition sometimes blinded him to the finer details. He saw the big picture but missed the crucial pixels that formed it. As Eliza Thorne, I would have eviscerated his strategy in seconds. As Jane Sterling, my role was to support, not to strategize.
He was pacing now, the tension radiating from him. "Kenji, I'm telling you, this is the safe play. Let's just lock it in and be done with it. Send the paperwork."
My heart hammered against my ribs. Six years. For six years, I had poured my soul, my secret knowledge, and the vast, hidden resources of my family into making his company, Sterling Innovations, a success. I did it from the shadows, a ghost in the machine, all so that one day, he would be successful enough, confident enough, to love the woman standing next to him, not the name she'd left behind. Letting him make this mistake felt like a betrayal of our shared dream.
I had to do something.
My eyes darted around the kitchen. My gaze landed on the glass of water I'd poured for myself. It was my only option. Taking a deep breath, I walked toward him, my steps deliberately clumsy. "Richard, honey, you forgot your…" I let my voice trail off as I "tripped" over the edge of the plush rug.
The glass of water flew from my hand, not onto his laptop, but onto the floor right beside it with a loud splash.
"Jane! For God's sake, watch where you're going!" he hissed, covering the receiver of his phone.
"Oh my gosh, Richard, I am so, so sorry!" I cried, my voice filled with genuine-sounding panic. I dropped to my knees, dabbing at the puddle with a napkin. In my feigned clumsiness, my arm brushed his laptop, shifting the mouse. The cursor highlighted a different cell on his spreadsheet—the very cell showing the projected fuel-levy increase he was ignoring.
As I cleaned up the mess at his feet, I looked up at the screen, my eyes wide with manufactured innocence. "Wow, that's a lot of numbers," I said breathlessly. "I didn't mean to look, but… oh, that little red number there is so much bigger than that blue one next to it. It's all red. Does red mean… bad?"
Richard's face was a mask of sheer annoyance. He glanced down at the screen to see what his clueless wife was pointing at, ready to dismiss me. And then he froze. His eyes, which had been looking at me, were now looking through me, finally seeing the numbers. The red cell. The projection. The flaw in his logic.
I saw the flicker of understanding, the dawning horror and realization. He'd almost made a catastrophic error.
He turned back to his phone, his voice suddenly steel. "Kenji. Wait. Don't send the paperwork. I'm looking at the Q3 projections again. There's something I missed. We're not locking in that rate. Let's talk about a variable cap."
I stayed on the floor, quietly cleaning up the last of the water, my head bowed to hide my smile. He'd saved the deal. He'd saved the company millions.
After he hung up, a triumphant energy buzzing around him, he looked down at me. He pulled me to my feet, a wide grin spreading across his handsome face. He wasn't going to thank me for my brilliant insight. He didn't even know it had happened.
He pinched my cheek, his touch possessive and dismissive all at once. "My little lucky charm," he boomed, his voice full of laughter. "You and your simple, clumsy way of looking at things. Sometimes you just need a fresh pair of eyes to point out the obvious. What would I do without you, huh?"
He kissed my forehead, turned, grabbed his briefcase, and walked out the door, leaving me alone in the silent, perfect apartment. The words echoed in the space he'd left behind. Simple. Clumsy. Obvious. I had just saved him millions of dollars, and he thought I was a lucky pet. I closed my eyes, clinging to the fragile hope that one day, he would see the real me and love me anyway. For now, it was a price I was willing to pay.