The Convenient Wife

Declan stood in the doorway, his eyes lingering heavily on my revealing outfit. He shifted his weight, visibly uncomfortable with the sudden shift in my appearance. For years, I had dressed the part of the demure, conservative wife. To him, decent women did not wear plunging necklines or tight, figure-hugging lace that left little to the imagination. I decided to play innocent. Feigning mild curiosity, I tilted my head, catching his gaze directly as I asked him, "Hazel just said she wants Chloe to be her mom. Who's this Chloe?"

His face immediately tightened into a stiff mask of tension. A flicker of panic crossed his dark eyes before he buried it behind a wall of annoyance. He quickly dismissed the question, waving his hand in the air. "She is just rambling nonsense," he told me, his tone clipped. "Do not take it seriously. Let's go downstairs and eat." He urgently ushered us out of the room, his hand hovering near my back.

His desperate attempt to cover up Chloe's existence brought a bitter, stinging memory rushing back from my previous life. The memory hit me so hard I could almost smell the expensive cigar smoke from that night. I remembered standing outside a private room at an upscale club, holding a gift, ready to push the heavy oak door open and surprise him. Instead, I accidentally overheard him talking to a close friend. The man had laughed, asking Declan when he planned to finally divorce me and give Chloe an official status.

Declan had coldly stated, "I am not considering divorce because of Hazel."

The friend had pressed him harder, pointing out that our marriage was dead and stringing Chloe along was unfair. Declan's response still echoed in my head, a cruel mantra that had shattered my world. He had taken a long drag of his cigarette, crushed it out in the ashtray, and said, "Serena's not my dream wife, but she's the kid's mom. As long as she stays in line and learns to live with Chloe, I won't leave her."

He had reduced my entire existence to a convenient, drama-free caretaker. I was just a pretty face that made him look good in public, someone who kept the house spotless and kept his parents happy. He did not keep me around out of love. He kept me around because I was useful, because I fit the mold of a perfect, silent partner.

Back in the present reality, I swallowed the bile rising in my throat and followed him down the stairs. We made our way down to the dining room for dinner. My mother was already setting the table, ladling out the rich, fragrant soup she had spent all afternoon simmering.

Almost immediately, Hazel settled into her chair, pouted her lips, and complained to my mother. She pointed a small, accusatory finger at me, whining loudly, "Grandma, how'd you have a daughter this mean? Can you take her back?"

Without missing a single beat, I stopped at the edge of the table and shot right back at her, "If people could return kids, you'd be first. Bet on it?"

Hazel flinched violently. The defiant color drained from her face as she scrambled out of her chair, pressing herself closer to Declan for protection. She buried her face into his suit sleeve.

Declan frowned deeply, his jaw tight. He sternly reprimanded me across the table. "Serena, what is your deal today? Why do you keep picking on Hazel? She is the very daughter you carried for ten months. Can't you see how much you are hurting her?"

Unbothered, I pulled out my chair, sat down, and picked up my spoon. I coolly took a slow bite of my soup, letting the warm liquid coat my throat before meeting his angry gaze. "She started it," I pointed out, my voice smooth. "I am my mother's perfect girl. But your precious daughter just told my mother she wished I had never been born. I can't get mad?"

My mother tried desperately to smooth the rising tension over. She forced a strained smile and slid a plate across the table. "Declan, Serena is just fired up. Don't take it hard. Hazel, sweetheart, look. Cola chicken wings. Your favorite."

Hazel stubbornly pushed the plate away, crossing her arms out of pure spite. "No. I don't want them."

I simply reached over and snatched the entire plate for myself, pulling it right under my chin. "I will take them, Mom. I love these."

My mother stared at me, her hands freezing mid-air. She sighed heavily at my shocking lack of maternal warmth, shaking her head as she went back to her own meal.

As Declan sat there, patiently feeding Hazel bite by bite, soothing her bruised ego, I dropped my next piece of news onto the table. I set my spoon down, wiped my mouth with a napkin, and looked directly at him.

"I am planning to hire two live-in servants," I announced clearly, my voice cutting through the quiet clinking of silverware. "They will take over Hazel's care and the household chores. Furthermore, I want to take a short trip for myself."

Declan paused, the fork hovering near Hazel's mouth. He was clearly surprised by the sudden demand. He looked at me as if trying to figure out who I was. But surprisingly, he agreed to the household help. "You handle the house stuff however you want. Fine by me. But a trip?" He questioned, his brow furrowing. "Hazel is in school. Where are you going?"

I examined my freshly manicured nails. "Chill out. It is not far. Just a quick escape nearby. Staying cooped up at home is driving me nuts."

Hazel, suddenly realizing she was about to lose her personal chauffeur and caretaker, instantly dropped her bratty attitude. Her eyes went wide with panic. She slid off Declan's lap and scrambled over to me, clinging tightly to my leg. She batted her eyelashes, looking up at me with a sweet, innocent expression. "Mom, even though you scolded me earlier, I am not mad. Let's make up, okay? Dad, I don't want Mom to leave. I still need her to drive me to and from school."

Seeing Declan's exact manipulative charm mirrored so perfectly in her young face sent a cold shock through my system. At six years old, she already knew how to play people. She knew exactly when to push and when to play the victim to get what she wanted. It made me realize what a massive failure I had been as a mother in my past life, blindly mistaking this calculated manipulation for intelligence.

I looked down at her and spoke flatly. "I am not angry. But sweetheart, you are about to start elementary school. You are a big girl now. It is time you learned to do things by yourself instead of relying on everyone else."

Declan quickly chimed in, setting his napkin down on the table. "Take it easy on her, Serena," he said, frowning. "She is just a kid."

I countered sharply, locking eyes with him. "Six is more than old enough to know better. Remember how maliciously she just cut up our family photos upstairs? Those photos are ruined forever." I looked back down at the girl clutching my leg. "Actions have consequences."

I reached down and physically pried her small hands off my leg, ignoring her gasp of surprise. I stood up, smoothing out the tight lace of my dress, and grabbed my small clutch off the counter. "I am heading out to meet friends for a movie."

My mother looked up from her plate, alarmed. "Who are you meeting? It is getting late, where are you off to?"

"Movie night," I grinned, turning my back on the dining room.

Walking to the front door, I pulled open the heavy wooden shoe cabinet. I dug through my boring, conservative shoe collection. Row after row of practical flats and dull loafers stared back at me. It frustrated me immensely. None of these shoes had the edge I needed tonight. I pushed aside a pair of beige pumps, digging deeper until I finally settled on a pair of silver kitten heels tucked away in the back corner. They perfectly matched the curves of my dress, adding a sharp, elegant finish to the outfit.

I leaned against the wall, slipping the right shoe onto my foot. The cool metal buckle snapped into place. Just as I slipped the left one on and adjusted the strap, Declan stepped up right beside me. His tall frame cast a dark shadow over me in the hallway. His eyes scanned my body, taking in the silver heels, the bare legs, and the tight lace dress.

"That's what you're wearing?" he asked.