The doors opened, and there she was, walking out of his office in a floral sundress.
Young. Beautiful. Long hair falling past her waist, round doe eyes, impossibly cute.
In the split second before the office door swung shut behind her, I saw it: my personal throw blanket draped over the couch, and the matching couple's mug Asher and I had bought together, sitting on her side of the desk.
She froze mid-step when she saw me. The corners of her mouth went stiff for just a fraction of a second before she recovered and beamed at me, all sweetness.
"Hello! Do you have an appointment?"
I looked her straight in the eyes. My voice was unhurried, level, the kind of calm that comes from knowing exactly where you stand.
"Winifred Taylor. I'm Aileen Pruitt, Asher's wife. Do I need an appointment?"
Winifred's mouth fell open in a performance of shock.
"Really? You're his wife? I had no idea Mr. Sanchez was even married!"
Asher and I had been married for three years, but I could count on one hand the number of times I'd set foot in Sanchez Group.
I'd done it on purpose. I wanted to give him room, to make sure no one could say he'd built his success on the Pruitt name.