Adriana blinked. Once. Slow.
"Since our men are about as useful as chocolate teapots when it comes to actually satisfying us. Since they're too busy conquering boardrooms, continents, and—" Melissa cocked her head, let the word drop like surgical steel
"—mistresses they think we're too stupid or too polite to notice. Every city. Every conference. Every 'working dinner' that magically stretches until 2 a.m. with lipstick on the collar and perfume that isn't ours. We're not idiots, Adriana. We've never been idiots. We just got tired of saying it out loud because saying it hurt worse than swallowing it."
Each syllable was aimed—not at Adriana.
Melissa had long since cauterised whatever private bitterness she once carried about Harold, about the years she'd played Perfect Wife while her body starved and her bed stayed cold and empty that she had to masturbate every four night a week, until Phei.
