Chapter 2: Playing the Long Game

There are two types of wealthy people in this world: those who show up on the Forbes list, flaunting their assets, and those who can quietly mobilize massive resources and capital behind the scenes.

It’s the difference between those who need a spotlight and those who write the checks to keep it burning. The flash versus the power in the boardroom. I’ve seen both at Marcus’s side, but he’s always played the long game—preferring a low profile while everyone else chases headlines.

My husband, Marcus Reed, is the latter. He’s unknown to the public, yet he moves money in numbers that make most people’s eyes water—close to a billion, last I checked. In this world, there’s almost nothing he can’t do if he puts his mind to it.

Even the local business reporters call him a ghost in the machine—a name whispered in private equity circles, never seen in the society pages. He’s the kind of man you don’t cross, and I’ve always known it. Power that doesn’t need to brag is the most dangerous kind.

I know very well that if he wants to divorce me, he could make me leave with nothing—not a single cent. If he doesn’t saddle me with huge debts and leave me penniless, that would already be merciful.

There are prenups, secret trusts, lawyers who’d eat me alive if I gave them an opening. I’ve seen how quickly a woman can lose everything. Sometimes I wake up gasping, sheets twisted, convinced I’m back in that cramped apartment, counting pennies for milk. I won’t let it happen.

Given our more than twenty years together, he might not be that ruthless, but why should the tree I’ve painstakingly nurtured bear fruit for someone else to pick?

I remember the lean years—when he was just a junior analyst and we split grocery bills, when I sold my family’s tiny house to help with his first business. Every win he’s had, I was there, cheering or holding things together at home. The thought of someone else reaping those rewards makes my skin crawl.

At my age, I don’t care about love anymore. Sleeping with men, whatever. But if someone wants to take my money? No way.

That kind of passion, the romantic kind, faded after the second kid and a mortgage. These days, I’m practical—loyalty to the life we built, not to fairy tales. The only thing I’m sentimental about is my future security.

But this mistress is too high-level.

She’s not some naive gold-digger you can pay off or outlast. She’s got ambition, polish, and self-discipline. If she were just another pretty face, I could handle her, but she’s something else entirely—a chess player, not a pawn.

First, she’s younger and more beautiful than I am—much more presentable for a man to show off. Second, she knows exactly what men want.

She’s got that effortless elegance—the kind you can’t buy, only perfect. Her laugh floats through a room, her LinkedIn looks like a highlight reel, and she never has a hair out of place. Marcus practically beams when he talks about her, and I see the envy in his colleagues’ eyes.

She’s playing out a pure, old-school romance. She never proactively asks my husband for money or resources, never mentions wanting to become the official wife. She just loves, purely. She’s willing to be the other woman; as long as he visits her occasionally in his spare time, that’s enough for her.

You know the type—always perfectly gracious, never causing drama, always making herself seem like the one making sacrifices. She’s the ideal side piece: independent, low-maintenance, and apparently selfless. I’d almost admire the act if I weren’t on the other end of it.

In her own words, her income is high enough; she doesn’t need my husband’s support—she just wants love.

But love, in her world, comes with a side of perfectly executed strategic moves. She makes it look effortless—like she’s above it all—but anyone with eyes can see what she’s angling for. It’s the oldest play in the book, dressed up as virtue.

Sounds noble, but behind every one of her projects is my husband’s endorsement and resources. She’s capable, but she knows that without backing from someone powerful, she might not land a single deal.

I see right through it—her phone buzzes with new contracts, introductions, funding opportunities that all trace back to Marcus. There’s nothing accidental about her success. She knows it. I know it. Maybe even Marcus knows it, but he lets himself believe in her story.

Plus, she and my husband are in the same industry—finance—so they have endless things to talk about.

They toss around terms like derivatives, market volatility, and portfolio diversification over cocktails, while I’m still the one remembering to order the kids’ soccer cleats and get my dad’s prescriptions refilled. It’s like a private club, and I’m not on the guest list anymore.

By comparison, I’ve been a full-time housewife for years. I can’t match her in knowledge or spirit, and Marcus and I barely have any common ground left.

There was a time when we’d debate IPOs over midnight takeout, but those days are gone. Now, I feel out of my depth whenever they start discussing hedge funds or startup valuations. The gap grows wider, and the silence at dinner stretches longer.

She doesn’t pressure him and provides high-quality emotional value—what man wouldn’t be drawn to that?

She’s always upbeat, always supportive, always understands him in a way I just… can’t anymore. I see how he lights up with her. Even the kids notice, though they don’t say it out loud. There’s no contest—I feel it in my bones.

And most importantly: Marcus is her first man. I know my husband too well—he has a serious thing about being the first. I imagine he must feel deep guilt toward her.

It’s a weird blind spot of his—he acts like he owes her some unpayable debt, just because she “waited” for him. I see the look in his eyes when her name comes up—a mix of pride and shame. That’s a dangerous combination.

The less she asks for, the more Marcus feels he owes her for life. The only reason he hasn’t divorced me yet is probably because I gave him three children.

He’s a sucker for gratitude, for the illusion of innocence. Sometimes I wonder if he’d still be here if the kids weren’t in the picture—if I were just another part of the furniture, easily replaced.

But I’ve already heard him mention to the media and outsiders more than once how outstanding this mistress is, how much she helps his career.

He does it subtly—never by name, but anyone paying attention can connect the dots. The first time I heard it, I felt like someone had poured ice water down my back. He’s never spoken about me that way.

She’s got me beat in every way.

I tell myself not to compare, but how can I not? She’s younger, sharper, and fresh to the scene, while I’m just the wife at home, holding the pieces together. It’s a losing battle, and everyone knows it.

A decisive battle is coming, and the only card I have left is the bit of old affection Marcus still has for me.

It’s like holding a lottery ticket with fading ink—maybe it’ll pay off one last time, or maybe the numbers won’t match. But it’s all I’ve got left, and I’m not going down without a fight.