Chapter 4: Red Wine and Rotten Apples

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After two weeks of silent war, all that was left was for the client to sign, and the project my company had worked on for a year would finally go through.

The tension in the office was palpable, like the air before a tornado. My assistant brought me coffee with an extra shot, whispering, "You got this, boss." I smiled gratefully, nerves buzzing.

But that day, Ryan brought Jessica to the dinner meeting.

The moment I saw them walk in together, my stomach dropped. Jessica wore a new Chanel suit—Ryan’s taste, not hers. She draped herself over his arm like a prom queen, and my blood ran cold.

"Jessica’s joined the company now—she’s not an outsider. After this project is signed, let her shadow you and learn."

He said it like it was a gift, not a slap in the face. Jessica flashed a smile, the kind that never reached her eyes.

Jessica gave me a smug smile. "Megs, we can be best friends again."

Her words tasted sour, like biting into a rotten apple. She twisted the knife with practiced ease, her voice sugary sweet. I clenched my jaw, refusing to give her the reaction she wanted.

My brow twitched.

I felt my whole body tense, the urge to scream barely held in check. I took a long, slow breath, counting to five.

In college, Jessica and I had been close, until I learned she’d gotten close to me for Ryan. Even after three years of marriage, she was still a wedge between us.

I remembered the study nights in our cramped apartment, sharing ramen and dreams. But it had all been a game to her. Even now, she played her part to perfection, always finding a way to slip between us.

Whenever she was around, nothing good happened. I was about to lose my temper and tell Ryan to take her and leave, when the client arrived.

I pasted on my best professional smile, the kind you wear to survive bad meetings and worse marriages. The air shifted as the client strode in, all business, hand extended for a shake.

I took a deep breath, forced a smile, and greeted the client.

My voice was steady, my handshake firm. Years of corporate America had taught me how to mask chaos with charm. I steered the conversation, determined to salvage the night.

During drinks, I tried to signal Ryan to help me block a round, but he pretended not to notice, keeping a cold face, as if the client owed him money.

I caught his eye, lifting my glass, the silent plea obvious. But he just scowled, arms folded, refusing to play along. I felt a fresh wave of anger, but forced myself to keep smiling.

The voices:

"Oh, he’s jealous—his wife is smiling at another man!"

"Don’t be ridiculous, that’s the client."

I kept my composure and handled the client myself. Seeing I was capable and knew how to put my pride aside, the client was soon in high spirits after two drinks.

I told a few stories, made him laugh. The tension eased, and for a moment, it felt like maybe, just maybe, I could pull this off. I saw the client’s walls come down, his smile genuine.

"Ms. Carter, your company’s design is really innovative this time. I have high hopes—you’re a person of integrity. Let’s make some real money together."

His words felt like the first real praise I’d heard in months. I felt taller, lighter, ready to face whatever came next.

I raised my glass, feeling a rare surge of confidence. "Absolutely."

My voice rang out, sure and strong. It felt good to win something, even just a moment’s respect.

But the next moment, Jessica let out a shriek and splashed wine all over the client’s face.

For a split second, no one moved. Even the ice in the glasses seemed to stop melting. The room froze. Red wine dripped down the client’s expensive suit, the glass shattered at his feet. Jessica’s eyes were wide, her lips trembling in practiced outrage.

"I’m not some hostess."

She shot me a contemptuous look as she said it.

She made sure everyone heard, her voice sharp enough to cut through the room’s stunned silence. The humiliation burned.

I bit my lip hard, glared at Jessica, then quickly bent down to apologize to the client, handing him a napkin.

My cheeks were flaming. I fumbled for napkins, pressing them into his hands, my voice barely above a whisper as I apologized over and over. I could feel everyone watching, waiting for me to crack.

But Ryan grabbed my wrist, his face stormy. "Megan, you’re my wife—don’t embarrass yourself like that."

The accusation hung between us, so unfair it left me speechless. He yanked me upright, his grip tight. The client stood up, face red with anger and wine.

The client was furious. "Ms. Carter, I think we’d better not work together."

The finality in his tone was unmistakable. I felt the world tilt under my feet. The deal was dead, and it was my husband’s doing.

In that instant, a year’s worth of effort was wiped out.

The ache in my chest was worse than any heartbreak. Everything I’d sacrificed, all the nights spent away from home, all gone in a single moment.

I slumped in my seat. Jessica was still muttering mockingly:

Her words buzzed in my ears, cruel and smug. I wanted to scream, but I didn’t.

"It’s better this way. I hate these gross men. If I had a husband, I’d never come out and fake a smile."

"Ryan, don’t be mad. Jess will always be here for you."

My anger surged. I stood up and slapped Jessica, hard.

The crack of my hand on her cheek echoed through the room. For a split second, everything went silent. She gaped at me, one hand to her face.

"Get out."

My voice shook, but I didn’t back down. I’d had enough.

Mascara streaked down her cheek, but her eyes stayed locked on Ryan. Her face immediately reddened, eyes filling with tears. She looked pitiful.

"Ryan…"

She reached for him, her voice trembling. I saw her game for what it was and felt nothing but disgust.

I raised my hand to slap her again, but Ryan caught my wrist.

His grip was firm, but his eyes—just for a moment—looked almost sorry. The tension between us crackled.

His expression softened a little as he looked at me.

For a heartbeat, I thought he might actually choose me. But then his face hardened again.

"Why did you hit her?"

His question wasn’t angry—just bewildered, like he truly couldn’t understand why I’d finally snapped.