Good Wives Finish Last: Revenge of the Billionaire's Ex Wife

Bottles chilled in silver buckets, labels perfectly outward. The florist's dawn delivery-white roses, peonies, hydrangeas-had already been rearranged. A Costas wife notices everything.

Cassandra's voice lived in my head like a drill sergeant. I adjusted a napkin for the third time. Twelve place settings. Crystal aligned with military precision. Beyond the windows, the bay glittered like it had been paid to perform. This was the expensive life everyone envied online. My phone lay face down on the table, silent. No happy birthday texts. No "I'm running late." Nothing.

Zayden entered with damp hair, lounge pants slung low, T-shirt riding up to show the edge of his abs. He looked like he'd rolled out of someone else's bed, not off an international flight.

"Morning, Saint."

His lips skimmed mine in that practiced near-miss. Cedar soap and home. No trace of airports or exhaustion. I hadn't actually kissed him. Just grazed skin that felt like a stranger's.

"Happy birthday," I murmured, pulling back before the emptiness could register.

His gaze flicked over the table-the flowers I'd obsessed over for two weeks, the settings, the whole carefully curated brunch-then dropped straight back to his phone. "You've been up early. Looks nice."

Six words. For a spread that deserved thirty.

I smiled anyway and offered coffee. He declined-he'd already had some-and claimed the head of the table. No one ever sat there. His thumb scrolled endlessly. For a split second, a ghost of a real smile crossed his face. Then it vanished.

The grandfather clock ticked like a countdown. Silence stretched until the rest of the family filed in.

Cassandra arrived first, pearls gleaming, cream suit flawless. She paused at the hydrangeas. "They're wilting already."

"I'll have them replaced," I said quickly.

A slight nod. The closest thing to approval I'd get.

Daphne followed, sunglasses perched on her head indoors. "Traffic was a nightmare." She lived twelve minutes away.

Leonidas trailed behind with a gift bag, offering me a tired smile that died the moment the kids exploded into the room. Aria beelined for the pastries. Ares nearly took out a chair. Iris had her phone up instantly, filming like the house was her personal set.

"Birthday presents!" Aria shouted.

That finally pulled Zayden's attention from his screen.

I started with the vintage watch from Geneva-the one he'd mentioned once years ago. He opened the box, glanced inside, and closed it. "Nice." Set it aside like a receipt.

The second gift felt heavier in my hands: a leather journal embossed with the coordinates of our honeymoon island, back when I still believed in us. Before Zayden could open it, Daphne snatched it, flipped through the pages, and laughed.

Heat crawled up my neck. Cassandra took it next, examined it in icy silence, then passed it back. "Very traditional."

Zayden never touched it.

I slid it toward myself and reached for the finale-the one he couldn't ignore. I placed the keys to the restored Aston Martin beside his plate. They gleamed under the chandelier like a promise.

His eyebrows lifted. Slightly. "Nice."

The same fucking word. A ten-thousand-dollar watch and a six-figure car, both dismissed with identical indifference. Then, almost as an afterthought: "Thank you."

Relief flickered for half a second before he checked his watch. My stomach plummeted.

"I need to head out. Work." He cut Daphne off before she could whine.

Aria's voice rose. "When will you be back?"

"Later."

I stood with the others as he made his rounds: cheek kiss for Cassandra, handshake for Leonidas, hair ruffle for Ares. Then he stopped in front of me. For one stupid, hopeful heartbeat, I thought he might actually kiss me.

His lips brushed the air beside my cheek instead. Publicly affectionate. Technically correct. "Don't wait up, Saint."

He was gone.

The front door latched with finality. The dining room fell into heavy silence. The family drifted out one by one until only Iris remained, phone still raised.

"Please stop," I said quietly.

Her camera dipped for half a second, then locked back on me.

My phone buzzed.

Unknown number. One photo.

White sheets. Navy headboard. The lamp I'd bought three years ago. A man's wrist. A woman's bare shoulder.

He hasn't left the penthouse since Wednesday.

I read it twice, heart hammering.

Another notification. Another photo.

This one loaded slower. Rumpled bedspread. Bare shoulder. Then the shirt-his shirt. The one I'd bought him two Christmases ago. The one I'd removed the tags from, ironed last month when he left it draped over our bedroom chair.

It wasn't on him.

It hung loose on a woman's shoulders, sleeves rolled up like she'd worn it a hundred times before. My eyes traveled higher.

Scarlett.

The little girl who used to crawl into my bed during thunderstorms. The teenager whose school forms I signed. The young woman I had defended, protected, raised.

The dining room vanished. Flowers, champagne, untouched gifts-everything blurred into nothing.

"Everything okay, Mom?"

Iris's voice cut through. She was still filming, phone steady.

I looked up, then back down at the photo. The shirt. The room. The truth.

A cold, brutal certainty slammed into me. Zayden hadn't been overseas. No endless meetings. No "too busy to call." For four days, he'd been right there in the penthouse. With her.

My hand started to shake. I set the phone down before I dropped it.

Despite weeks of preparation, the ideal brunch was untouched before me. Me, Saint Erina-the smiling, flawless wife-finally began to crack in front of her stepdaughter's unblinking lens.

This wasn't just a birthday.

It was the day my entire life caught fire.