The Diva’s Stepford Wife Strategy

I was notorious among the Manhattan elite for being a certified nightmare.

When it came to my fiancé, Declan Thatcher, I was accustomed to screaming demands and snapping orders. If I was even slightly put out, I could turn the Thatcher penthouse into a five-alarm disaster zone.

Until last night.

I had a dream.

In the dream, I was the villainess in a novel, and because I was so high-maintenance, I finally exhausted Declan’s patience. He tossed me out.

The ending was grim: my family, the Ashworths, lost everything, and I was left homeless, fighting stray dogs for a moldy piece of sourdough on the street.

The fear woke me up in a cold sweat.

My silk pajamas were soaking wet. Clutching my wildly beating heart and staring at the sprawling, several-thousand-square-foot master suite, I made a solemn vow.

I had to change.

For the sake of my couture wardrobe, my platinum Amex, and, most importantly, for avoiding sour bread.

I would become the ideal partner: thoughtful, gentle, and utterly compliant.

Even if it was all an act, I’d commit to the role for life.

1

Today was the perfect testing ground. Declan was flying to Europe to finalize a major corporate merger. This was usually peak hour for my dramatics.

I cornered him in the walk-in closet as he was fastening his cufflinks.

He was wearing a dark gray bespoke suit, his posture impeccable, his expression cool and distant. He didn’t even lift his head when I walked in, just offered a noncommittal grunt.

Normally, I would have ripped his tie off and—as I’d once threatened—strangled him with it.

But today, I practiced restraint.

I took a deep breath and shoved my phone under his nose. The screen displayed a stunning pink diamond necklace, something only seen at a private, high-end auction.

“Declan Thatcher, you are to buy this for me during your trip. No excuses.”

My tone was still demanding, but my heart was hammering.

This was the test.

The book said a man who was still willing to spend lavishly had not yet abandoned you.

Declan paused his movement.

He finally looked up, his eyes devoid of any discernible emotion.

“Understood.”

That was it? That flimsy?

I pouted in dissatisfaction, the urge to lash out a physical ache.

I stepped onto my toes, leaned in close to his ear, and let out a petulant huff.

“Declan, do you even love me anymore?”

The cufflink snapped shut.

The next second, he leaned down, his warm lips falling precisely onto the corner of my mouth for a quick peck.

“Yes.”

“I’ll buy it.”

“Be good while I’m gone.”

His voice was even, but I was entirely mollified. I released my grip on his tie, bestowed upon him a charitable kiss on the cheek, and released him to his private jet.

During Declan’s week-long absence, I stayed true to my Queen of Drama professional code. I sent him dozens of voice notes daily, all about mundane nonsense.

“I’m craving the limited-edition black truffle macaroons from La Belle Pâtisserie in the Village. Bring me a dozen when you land.”

“My new dress looks awful, and it’s your fault for not being here to give me fashion advice.”

“What time is your flight getting in, exactly?”

One night, at three in the morning, I couldn’t sleep and suddenly felt an overwhelming need to see the European night sky. I video-called him immediately.

It was evening for him, and he answered on the first ring.

The background was an ornate conference room filled with a group of sharply dressed foreign executives. Declan raised a hand, signaled a ‘pause’ to the room, and walked with his phone over to a massive floor-to-ceiling window.

“What do you want to see?”

The European cityscape was muted and brilliant in the lens. The executives in the meeting room exchanged priceless, bewildered glances.

I felt zero guilt, only critique.

“It’s nothing special. Not nearly as good as the view from our penthouse.”

Declan let out a low chuckle. “Agreed. I’ll show you the one at home.”

When I hung up, my best friend Sutton’s text immediately popped up.

“Stella, you are reaching peak diva status. Declan is an Ice King, the epitome of the untouchable enigma. You’re going to push him away eventually.”

I looked at my dazzling reflection in the mirror, tossing my hair with supreme confidence.

“Men line up for me from Manhattan to Monaco. Declan Thatcher is lucky I chose him.”

Sutton sent a string of ellipses.

I ignored her, but a faint flicker of unease crossed my mind. Declan’s love had always felt so restrained, so controlled. He was utterly compliant, but I always felt like something was missing.

Lately, a new social climber named Wren had popped up. She constantly tried to mimic my style, bought my exact designer bags, and was constantly maneuvering to get near Declan.

I didn’t pay her any mind. I’d seen a thousand of her before.

Until someone sent me a photo.

At a corporate gala, Wren, wearing a little white dress, had ‘accidentally’ spilled red wine on Declan’s bespoke suit. She was holding a handkerchief, practically plastered to his chest, looking utterly fragile.

And Declan didn’t push her away.

A hot, sharp fire shot straight to my brain.

I immediately drove to Declan’s corporate tower, my heels clicking like machine-gun fire on the marble floor.

Bang! I slammed my phone down on his massive executive desk.

“Declan Thatcher, I demand an explanation.”

He was signing a document and looked up, glancing at the photo.

He didn’t even flinch. He picked up his desk phone and immediately dialed his Chief of Staff.

“Pull all quarterly collaborations with the Ashworth Group. Effective immediately.”

“Also, send a memo: I never want to see that woman at a corporate event again.”

The action was swift, cold, and brutal.

He hung up and looked at me, his gaze entirely calm.

“Are you satisfied?”

His ruthlessly efficient response was exactly what I needed. The fury instantly vanished, replaced by smug satisfaction.

I blew him a kiss, happily spun around, and grabbed his corporate Black Card to go shopping.

I thought the incident was over.

But that night, I had another intensely vivid nightmare.

In the dream, I was the same high-maintenance wife in a novel called The CEO’s Substitute Sweetheart, and my continuous, unreasonable demands had finally depleted all of Declan’s love and patience.

Wren became his “North Star,” the ideal woman, while I faced family ruin and homelessness.

During a torrential downpour, soaked and pathetic, I knelt on the pavement, begging him.

Dream-Declan stood over me, shielded by a black umbrella, his eyes arctic and unforgiving.

He said one thing:

“Stella, I’m done with you.”

That line pierced my heart, and I jolted awake, drenched in sweat, my pajamas plastered to my skin. The fear of being abandoned was so real it made me physically tremble.

Clutching my racing heart, I came to a decision.

I absolutely could not let the dream come true. I had to secure my fortune and, more importantly, secure my Declan.

I had to change!

Stella Ashworth, the certified nightmare, was dead. Long live Stella 2.0: The Stepford Wife.

I was going to be a gentle, thoughtful, and kind sweetheart!

To implement my new, perfect-partner persona, I began a difficult withdrawal.

For three agonizing days, I refrained from sending Declan a single harassing text. My fingers were crawling with the itch, and several times, I opened the chat box, typed out a furious string of “Declan, are you dead? Why aren’t you answering?”—only to delete it, tearfully, character by character.

Finally, I replaced it with something new.

“Work hard, darling. Don’t forget to take care of yourself. xoxo”

I added a sickeningly cute emoji. I gave myself goosebumps just looking at it.

On Declan’s end, the chat bubble showed, ‘Declan Thatcher is typing…’

I stared anxiously at the screen. Ten minutes later, he finally replied.

A period.

“.”

My inner response: “…”

Hold it together, Stella! This is normal for a high-powered CEO! You cannot lose your cool!

I threw the phone to the side and burrowed under the duvet, rolling and thrashing until the urge to smash the device subsided.

Finally, the day Declan was due to return arrived.

I specifically dug out a soft, white cotton dress from the back of my closet. I even, for the first time in our relationship, decided not to send his driver to the airport, choosing instead to wait patiently at home.

At 8 PM, I heard the faint click of the lock.

Declan walked in, winded and slightly disheveled, bringing a trace of the chill air with him.

I immediately rushed over, beaming what I thought was a sweet, welcoming smile.

“Welcome home, darling.”

I crouched down, pulled out his house slippers, and carefully positioned them by his feet.

Up until now, he had always been the one to fetch my slippers.

Declan’s body stiffened visibly. He stared at me with the strangest expression.

I stood up, eyes filled with expectation, and glanced meaningfully at the suitcase his assistant was wheeling in, mentally flashing the image of my pink diamond necklace.

Declan froze.

He avoided my gaze and offered an awkward explanation.

“There was a hiccup at the auction. A Middle Eastern oil magnate suddenly jumped in and drove the price up too high. It was snatched.”

“I’ve already instructed my team to contact the buyer. We’ll try to acquire it at a premium…”

My heart sank instantly.

In the past, the nearest decorative throw pillow would already be airborne and aimed at his face.

But the terrifying dream flashed in my mind, that chilling phrase: “I’m done with you.”

I inhaled deeply. Then again.

I forced a smile that looked more like a grimace.

“N-no big deal.”

“It’s just a necklace, truly. If you couldn’t get it, forget it.”

“I… I have plenty anyway. I didn’t really want that one anymore.”

The air instantly went dead silent. I could hear every intake of breath.

Declan was stunned, staring straight at me.

Then, his already pale complexion turned instantly chalk-white.

The next second, he violently grabbed my wrist, his grip terrifyingly strong, as if he meant to crush the bones.

“Why don’t you want it anymore?”

His voice was tight, carrying a tremor I had never heard before.

“You always said you had to have it.”

“Stella, are you looking for an excuse to leave me?”

His eyes were filled with panic and a touch of deep paranoia, fixed on me.

“Are you trying to draw a line between us?”

“Or have you already found someone else?”