The study was dark, illuminated only by the cool blue glow of three monitors. On the center screen, a ticker tape of stock symbols raced by, but Elena only cared about one: NVS. NovaStream. Up 12% in after-hours trading.
Elena leaned back in her ergonomic chair, rubbing her temples. At thirty-two, she was the silent majority shareholder and founder of NovaStream, a cloud computing giant that had quietly revolutionized data storage. Her net worth fluctuated with the market, but it generally hovered around the three-billion-dollar mark.
She heard the distinctive rumble of a BMW pulling into the driveway.
Ideally, she would be popping champagne. NovaStream had just acquired its largest competitor in Asia. Instead, Elena closed her laptop, slid it into a hidden compartment under her desk, and hurried to the kitchen. She pulled a pre-made casserole out of the oven, messing up her hair slightly to look frazzled.
The front door opened. Mark walked in.
Mark was handsome in a conventional, catalogue-model way. He had the jawline of a hero and the ego of a dictator. He threw his keys into the bowl with a loud clatter.
“I’m home,” he announced, not waiting for a response. He walked straight past Elena to the fridge, grabbing a beer.
“Hi, honey,” Elena said, wiping her hands on her apron. “How was work?”
Mark sighed—a long, dramatic exhale designed to solicit sympathy. “Brutal. Absolutely brutal. The board is putting so much pressure on Marketing. They don’t understand vision, Elena. They just want numbers. But I handled it. I always do.”
Elena nodded, suppressing the urge to correct him. She knew exactly what the board wanted because she was the board. She had sent the email directive that morning demanding better ROI on the new ad campaign—the campaign Mark was supposedly leading.
“I’m sure you did great,” Elena said softly.
Mark took a long swig of beer and looked around the kitchen. “Is dinner ready? The place looks a bit… chaotic.”
He gestured vaguely at a stack of mail on the counter.
“I was just finishing up the laundry,” Elena lied. In reality, she had been on a secure video call with the Prime Minister of Singapore. “The casserole needs five more minutes.”
Mark scoffed. “You know, I ran into Dave from Sales today. His wife is a lawyer. Partner at her firm. She brings in six figures.” He looked at Elena with a mixture of pity and disdain. “It must be nice to just… exist. To have no real pressure.”
Elena felt the familiar sting. It wasn’t the insult itself—she had thicker skin than that. It was the irony.
Five years ago, Mark had been unemployed, depressed, and borderline suicidal. Elena, already a secret millionaire from her early patents, had fallen in love with his vulnerability. To build him up, she had crafted a narrative: she was a freelance graphic designer struggling to find work, and he was the rising star. She had used her connections to get him an entry-level job at one of her subsidiaries. She had secretly guided his career, feeding him ideas, fixing his mistakes late at night, and ensuring his promotions.
She had dimmed her light so he could shine. And now, blinded by that artificial glare, he couldn’t see her at all.
“I do my best, Mark,” Elena said, her voice tight.
