Chapter 1: I'm His Fucking Wife, His Legal Wife

Vivian's POV

The cream from the three-layer cake had started to melt, dripping onto the fine porcelain plate in slow, sticky drops. The steak had gone cold hours ago, and the wine in my glass sat untouched, still as death.

11:47 PM.

I sat rigid in my dining chair, staring at the black screen of the TV across from me. Just hours ago, it had been broadcasting the Oscar after-party coverage live. I'd watched as the camera swept past Rick, champagne in hand, surrounded by Hollywood's elite. My husband. One of the industry's hottest producers right now.

And me? Just his assistant. His shadow. For three fucking years.

I picked up my phone mechanically. "Rick" showed 7 missed calls. My finger hovered over the dial button before pressing it again.

"The number you have dialed is currently unavailable..."

That cold, robotic voice felt like a slap. I shot up from my chair so fast it scraped against the hardwood floor, the sound sharp and angry in the silence.

Something was wrong. It had to be. Rick never ignored my calls, especially not today. Not on our anniversary.

I should have been at that party with him. I was his assistant, after all. But lately, he'd been insisting I stay home with excuses that felt thinner each time. "You've been fighting that cold, babe. You need rest." "The party will be boring anyway. Not your scene."

The doubts I'd been pushing down for weeks suddenly crashed over me like a wave. What if this wasn't about protecting me at all? What if there was something he didn't want me to see?

The rain started as I grabbed my keys. Of course it fucking did. L.A. rarely saw storms like this, but tonight the sky was weeping like it knew something I didn't.

The hotel's glass doors felt heavier than they should have when I pushed them open. My evening dress was soaked, the hem clinging to my legs. I looked like hell, but I didn't care.

The grand ballroom was nearly empty. Just cleaning staff and a few assistants picking up the remnants of the night. Confetti, champagne corks, forgotten jewelry scattered across the floor.

"Ma'am? The party's over. Can I help you with something?" A worker approached, eyeing my disheveled appearance.

"Rick Johnson! Have you seen Rick?"

"Mr. Johnson? He left about an hour ago."

My heart sank, but before I could respond, I heard footsteps behind me.

"Vivian?"

Alex Rodriguez emerged from the corner, gesturing for the worker to leave us alone. Rick's financial director looked genuinely confused to see me there.

"Alex!" I grabbed his arm, probably too tight. "Where's Rick? Where did he go?"

"He left the party, but I honestly don't know where. What's going on? Rick said you were sick at home."

That's when I heard them. Two servers walking past, their voices just loud enough to catch.

"Did you see that? Rick and Amy Williams looked absolutely perfect together!"

"I heard she's starring in his new film. When they left together earlier, Amy was holding onto his arm like they were..."

The world tilted sideways. I spun around and grabbed the server's wrist before I could think.

"What did you just say? What do you mean 'left together'?"

"Ma'am, you're hurting me..." The girl looked terrified.

Alex pulled me away gently. "Sorry, she's had a bit too much to drink. You can go."

He guided me toward the exit, his voice low and concerned. "Vivian, what the hell is going on? Why are you acting like this?"

I stopped just inside the doors, looking out at the rain. When I spoke, my voice sounded hollow, like it was coming from somewhere far away.

"Because I'm his fucking wife. His legal wife."

Alex's face went through about five different expressions in two seconds. Confusion. Shock. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

"What? You mean you and Rick are... But he never... Jesus Christ!"

I walked into the rain without another word. Alex called after me, something about giving me a ride home, but his voice got swallowed by the storm.

I sat in my car for ten minutes, letting the rain soak through my dress and into the leather seats. I couldn't feel the cold. I couldn't feel anything.

Amy Williams. Oscar-nominated actress. Of course I knew who she was. Perfect face, perfect body, perfect career. But what the hell did she have to do with Rick?

When I finally drove home, the house looked exactly the same as when I'd left. Warm lights, perfect landscaping, the picture of domestic bliss. I parked in the driveway and sat there for another ten minutes, staring at our front door.

Inside, I didn't even bother changing out of my wet clothes. I collapsed onto the living room couch, staring at the dining room table. The melted cake. The cold dinner. It all looked like evidence now. Evidence of what, I wasn't sure yet.

The memories hit me all at once. Fresh out of USC, carrying my resume to every production office in town and getting doors slammed in my face.

But Rick had been different. Already making waves as an up-and-coming producer, but still young enough to take chances. "Your script analysis is brilliant," he'd said that first day. "Want to be my assistant? Actually, no, my partner." I remembered our first kiss, dawn breaking over his office after we'd spent all night rewriting a treatment.

I'd worked my ass off for him, fought for resources, pitched ideas, made connections. In just a few years, he'd become one of the most sought-after producers in Hollywood.

I remembered his proposal, both of us giddy with excitement, drunk on possibility and each other. "Marry me," he'd said, "but let's keep it quiet for now. When I get that Oscar, when I'm standing on that stage, I'll tell the whole world that none of this would have happened without you. My love."

The Oscar had slipped away this year, but I knew it was just a matter of time. I believed in him. In us.

The sound of keys jingling in the lock snapped me back to reality. My heart hammered against my ribs as I jumped to my feet.

The door opened, and Rick walked in. His tuxedo was rumpled, bow tie hanging loose around his neck.

"Fucking weather," he muttered, not looking at me. "When did L.A. start getting storms like this?"

I practically threw myself at him, wrapping my arms around his chest, pressing my face against his shirt. Usually, he'd hold me back immediately, kiss the top of my head, whisper "Miss me, baby?"

But tonight, his body went rigid for just a moment. Just long enough for me to notice.

"Babe, you're soaking wet. Did you go out?"

"I went to find you at the party."

I helped him out of his jacket, my movements automatic, practiced. But as I pulled the fabric away from his shoulders, I caught it. A sweet, cloying floral scent that definitely wasn't mine. A perfume I'd never smelled before, clinging to his skin like a confession.

Rick looked at the dining room table, at the melted cake and untouched dinner, and his expression went carefully blank.

"Oh shit, the anniversary dinner! I'm so sorry, babe. The weather was insane, so a bunch of us grabbed food at Craig's and totally lost track of time."

I held his jacket in my hands, not responding. My eyes found the inside collar, where a smear of red lipstick stood out against the white fabric like a neon sign.

He was lying. My husband, the man I loved more than life itself, was looking directly into my eyes and lying to my face.