The Virgin Wifes Fake Affair

The gossip columnists know the score. Grayson Ashford would sooner crash on a bottle service girl’s futon than touch his own wife. Me. Sloane Reed.

The only thing keeping the tabloids in business is the countdown to the day Mrs. Ashford finally stops being the city’s highest-paid virgin.

Gray was ruthless when the cameras flashed. His eyes, cold and direct, drilled into mine.

“Go have your own fun,” he’d said, his hands tucked casually in his trouser pockets. “If you can’t stand it, the door swings both ways.”

He turned and strolled away.

That night, when his latest conquest—a socialite-turned-wannabe-model—hit the front page, I didn’t cry.

Instead, I called my contact at The Gazette and scheduled a headline. Then, I shredded my lace slip, tangled the Italian-thread sheets, and took a grainy, first-person-view shot of myself in the aftermath. The ultimate setup.

I sent it to Gray anonymously.

Text: Hey, man. Your wife smells incredible. Let me know when the papers are signed.

1

Watching the headline I bought shoot straight to number one, I smiled, satisfied, and prepared for sleep.

Less than an hour later, the heavy, urgent sound of Gray’s footsteps echoed through the penthouse.

“Sloane Reed! Is this how you retaliate? Who the hell was he!”

A stack of photos hit my face. One was my staged, ambiguous bedroom shot. The other, the real kicker, was a smaller photo: Gray pressing Piper against a window, mid-passion.

It was the headline I had arranged: ASHFORDS STRIKE NEW DEAL: OPEN MARRIAGE, NO INTERFERENCE.

I sat on the edge of the bed, pulling the silk robe tighter around me.

“Isn’t this exactly what you wanted?”

I looked him straight in the eye. “You could have picked anyone. But you didn’t. You crossed a line when you decided to humiliate me with my father’s bastard daughter!”

Gray’s sharp breath hitched, but he didn’t address the Piper of it all. His jaw tightened.

“Who. Was. He?”

“You don’t need to know. That’s what makes it fair.”

There was a time I would have hired a private investigator to dig up every piece of information on his latest mistress. I was young then, naive, with a heart that couldn’t stand a speck of dust. But I learned quickly. Every time I thought I had a rival, he had already moved on to the next. I stopped asking.

Gray let out a sudden, chilling laugh. “You have some nerve, I’ll give you that.”

His eyes, black and savage, landed on a faint bruise at my collarbone—a fading mark from my imaginary lover. A flicker of something crossed his face. He pinned me to the mattress. I struggled, screamed.

A sharp object—a slim pocket knife—plunged into my skin just above the bone. I gasped as the warmth of blood bloomed over the mark, erasing the bruise. He erased it.

“You’re insane! Let go of me!”

Gray’s eyes were bloodshot, the veins in his forehead throbbing.

“First and last time,” he hissed. “I’ll kill the post. You will get back to normal before I completely lose it.”

His version of normal: his conquests were front-page news, and I remained outwardly unbothered. They sent me used contraception and soiled clothes, and I would graciously accept the packages.

He stared down at me, his gaze cold and desolate, until my tears were streaming down my face. He finally released me and moved to the dresser drawer for the first-aid kit.

I shoved his hand away. “Don’t touch me!”

Gray stood up, his face hardening into an expression of cold contempt.

“You played this entire theatrical game just to provoke me. Why the sudden innocence act?” He gestured to my bleeding arm, accidentally nicked by the knife. The silk sheet absorbed the fresh stain. I was slick with sweat from the shock. My arm bled, but my heart felt like it had ruptured a thousand times over.

His eyes were unblinking, devoid of feeling.

“My mother was right. Women who claw their way up from the gutter always resort to trashy tricks just to get attention,” he sneered. “Why bother staging this play? If you have the guts, really file for divorce! Your sister is ten thousand times better than you!”

He stormed out.

Moments later, a divorce agreement with his signature flashed across my phone screen. The property settlement was skewed 70-30 in my favor. He was so certain I would never leave that he made it easy for me to stay.

But I signed it. Then I picked up my phone, dialed a number, and confirmed my exit strategy.

You think this man isn’t real, Gray? Watch me.

The second I ended the call, the tears I had been hoarding finally fell.