My Husband Brought His Mistress To A Business Dinner To Humiliate His “Useless” Wife. He Didn’t Know I Speak Eight Languages Or That I’m The One Who Actually Owns Our Mansion. Am I Wrong For Letting Him Ruin Himself?

The Drive to One Vanderbilt

Julian had brainwashed me, instilling the idea that I was useless, a freeloader. Sometimes I even started to believe it—that I was nothing more than an ignorant housewife who needed her husband’s money to buy a bunch of parsley at the supermarket. But tonight, seeing the invitation to a dinner with the H&G Corporation, an illustrious name in German industry, my heart skipped a beat.

H&G, a name that reminded me of sleepless nights translating technical manuals, of days in the interpretation booth, my back soaked in sweat but my spirit ecstatic. I put the wooden box back in its place, pushing it deep into the back. In the dim light, I put on the diamond necklace.

It felt as heavy as a shackle. I applied a bit of red lipstick, a deep shade, not too flashy but enough to hide my pale lips. Julian wanted me to be a discreet shadow, a backdrop for him. I would grant him his wish.

I would go sit in silence like a doll in a display case. But I wanted to see how my husband, the successful New York businessman, would handle the old wolves from Germany, accustomed as he was to his new money tricks. I walked out of the room and slammed the door shut.

The sharp click of the latch announced a night that would not be quiet. The gleaming black Mercedes S-Class glided smoothly through the bustling streets of New York City in the final days of the year. The holiday spirit was everywhere: bright lights and decorations, people hurrying to and fro.

But inside the car, the air was dense, as heavy as an impending storm. Julian drove, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of the classical music playing from the expensive speakers. He didn’t look at me, his eyes fixed on the road, but he continued his lecture.

“When we get there, don’t leave my left side. When I shake someone’s hand, you just give a slight nod as a greeting. Don’t you dare extend your hand to imitate them. Your hands are rough and always clammy. You’d kill their appetite.”

I was shrunk in the passenger seat, my hands on my knees, my gaze lost out the window. The street lights flew by like sad, fleeting stars.

“I remember,” I replied curtly.

“And another thing, in a little while Chloe will come to greet us. She’s my new assistant. Very efficient. Don’t give me any of your ridiculous small-town jealousy. She’s an educated person. She’s been abroad, has civilized manners, not like your mother’s neighbors.”

The Unofficial Hostess

Chloe. The name was pronounced with an unusual tone of respect. I didn’t know her, but my woman’s intuition told me she was more than a simple subordinate. On Julian’s credit card statements, which I had secretly checked last month, there were strange charges at luxury women’s boutiques, places Julian had never taken me.

The car stopped in front of the main entrance of One Vanderbilt. The opulence and splendor of the skyscraper were overwhelming. Gentlemen in elegant suits and ladies in flowing evening gowns moved as if in a ballet.

Julian got out, adjusted his suit jacket, and walked around the car to open my door, a gallant gesture, but I knew it was pure theater for the crowd. He offered his hand and I placed mine in his. His hand was cold and damp.

“Remember what I told you,” he hissed through his teeth while his smile to the crowd remained radiant.

“Julian, Julian, you’re here.”

A singsong voice emerged from the crowd. A young woman, vibrant as a velvet rose, approached. She wore a daring crimson dress with a slit that revealed endless legs and porcelain skin, her hair voluminous and wavy, her face perfectly made up.

“This must be Chloe,” she said.

She glided to Julian’s side with complete naturalness and flicked an invisible speck of dust from his shoulder.

“You’re three minutes late. Mr. Richter is waiting for you in the VIP lounge.”

Then she turned to look at me. Her gaze flickered over me, pausing on my beige knit dress with a hint of concealed mockery.

“Hello Eleanor. You look so simple today. For a second I thought you were the housekeeper who’d gotten into the wrong car.”

The half-joking, half-serious line was accompanied by a little giggle. Julian showed no intention of defending me. On the contrary, he laughed with her.

“My wife is like that, used to the rustic life. You have to understand her. Come on, let’s go in. We don’t want this deal to slip through our fingers.”

With that, he pulled his hand from mine so Chloe could take his arm. They walked together, forming a radiant and perfect couple, as if they were the true hosts of the party, and I, the legitimate wife, was relegated a few steps behind, following them meekly like a servant.