He Put a $50K Emerald on His Mistress While Starving My Garden—Unaware I Owned Every Office Building His Career Relied On

Harrison arrived home at their split-level home in Wayne at eight-fifteen, smelling of expensive sandalwood cologne, cedar smoke, and chilled gin. He tossed his keys onto the credenza with that rehearsed air of an exhausted titan who carried the weight of the financial world on his shoulders.

"Rough day with the regional zoning board," Harrison sighed, loosening his silk necktie as he walked into the kitchen. He glanced dismissively at the kitchen table, where a pot of plain lentil soup sat warm on the stove. "Did you manage to find those discount hinges for the back pantry door?"

Lissa was sitting by the French doors that looked out into the pitch-black garden. Through the rain-slicked glass, she could faintly outline the rusted iron skeleton of her grandmother's collapsed greenhouse.

"I found them," Lissa said softly, not turning around. "How was your afternoon meeting?"

"Brutal," Harrison replied, pouring himself a tumbler of scotch from the bar cart. "Estelle and I spent four hours walking cold corporate suites on Market Street. Bowman Capital is looking for forty thousand square feet of flagship commercial space, and every landlord in the city is bidding against us. I'm trying to close this deal before Thanksgiving. If we land Estelle's family trust, Apex Metro will finally be in the clear."

"That sounds exhausting," Lissa said, turning her head slightly to study his face.

His eyes were bright, energized by adrenaline and secret indulgence. There wasn't a trace of fatigue in his posture. He carried himself with the bloated confidence of a man who believed he had outgrown his quiet wife and conquered a brand-new social tier.

"Estelle is very demanding," Harrison continued casually, leaning against the kitchen counter and taking a slow sip. "High-maintenance heiress type. You know how those old-money families operate. You have to cater to their whims, accompany them to high-end boutiques, flatter their tastes... it's all part of the brokerage game."

"Did she buy anything nice today?" Lissa asked, her voice smooth, neutral as falling snow.

Harrison's hand paused for a fraction of a second against the crystal glass. The scotch swirled gently. His eyes flickered toward her, assessing whether there was any hidden meaning behind the question. Seeing only her calm, unadorned face, he relaxed and gave a dismissive scoff.

"Just some trinkets. Women like Estelle throw money around like confetti. Honestly, it makes me appreciate how low-maintenance you are, Lissa. Not every man has a wife who's content with second-hand garden shears and sensible sweaters."

He walked over and patted her shoulder—the exact same spot where his hand had lingered on Estelle Bowman’s cashmere coat two hours earlier.

"We need to tighten the belt next month, though," Harrison added smoothly, retreating toward the hallway. "The office rent at Meridian Tower went up eight percent, and commercial margins are tight. So let's hold off on looking at those stone masons until spring, all right?"