Chapter 2 I Was Merely a Convenient Wife
Vera's POV
My trembling finger refreshed Instagram for the hundredth time, the screen's harsh glow illuminating my tear-streaked face.
The laughter in his eyes—I hadn't seen him look that way in years.
"Maybe it's just business," I whispered to myself, the desperate justification sounding hollow even to my own ears.
I scrolled through three years of photos—our wedding day, where his smile never reached his eyes; the charity gala last winter, where he stood three feet away from me in every photograph. The progression of his growing indifference was painfully documented, frame by digital frame.
"What did I do wrong?" I asked the empty room, my voice cracking. "Was I not beautiful enough? Not smart enough? Not from the right family?"
My eyes burned from crying and sleeplessness, but I couldn't stop staring at their happiness captured in perfect, filtered reality. At 4 AM, exhaustion finally claimed me, phone still clutched in my hand.
I woke with a jolt three hours later, determined to salvage what remained of my relationship. If Idris wanted perfection, I would deliver. I slipped from bed and headed to the kitchen.
By 8:00 AM, I had set the dining room table with our wedding china and fresh flowers. Truffle eggs Benedict, blueberry French toast, and single origin coffee waited under the soft glow of morning candles.
The front door opened at precisely 8:10 AM. I smoothed my hair, pinched my cheeks for color, and took a steadying breath. Idris walked in, his suit slightly rumpled, exhaustion evident in the shadows beneath his eyes.
"Good morning," I said, my voice carefully modulated to hide any trace of last night's tears. "I made breakfast."
His eyes moved from me to the elaborate spread, a flicker of something—guilt?—crossing his features before being expertly masked. "You didn't have to do all this."
"I wanted to," I replied, pulling out his chair. "Coffee?"
He nodded, loosening his tie as he sat down. I watched him surreptitiously as I poured the dark liquid into his cup, searching for any sign that he still cared, that there was something left to save.
"You look tired," he commented, noticing my reddened eyes.
Hope fluttered in my chest. He noticed. "I didn't sleep well," I admitted.
"You should take something for that," he said dismissively, turning his attention to his phone.
I served him a plate, arranging everything just how he liked it. "I saw the Instagram post," I ventured, keeping my tone light, giving him the opportunity to explain.
Idris barely looked up. "Last night was just work, Vera. Don't overthink it."
The dismissal stung, but then he surprised me.
"I'll make it up to you," he said, setting down his phone. "This weekend, let's go to Providence. That restaurant you've been wanting to try."
My heart leapt. "You remember I wanted to go there?"
He nodded, taking a bite of the eggs. "Saturday night. I'll pick you up at seven."
"I'd like that," I whispered, warmth spreading through me.
Maybe it had been business. Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe three years of marriage wasn't about to crumble beneath the weight of an Instagram post.
The next three days passed in a blur of anticipation. I called Providence restaurant repeatedly until I secured the perfect table.
I spent an entire day on Rodeo Drive, trying on dress after dress until I found a champagne-colored silk that made even the saleswoman gasp. "Your husband won't be able to take his eyes off you," she promised as she wrapped it.
By Saturday afternoon, my heart raced with nervous energy. I soaked in a bath scented with jasmine oil, applied a hydrating mask, and spent thirty minutes perfecting my skin care routine. For three hours, I worked on creating the elegant-yet-sensual makeup look that Idris had once complimented, years ago.
The champagne dress hugged my curves perfectly, complemented by the diamond pendant Idris had given me on our first anniversary. I slipped into the heels I'd purchased to match, grabbed my clutch, and felt ready for the night that would save my marriage.
"Darling, we should go," I called, excitement coloring my voice. "We don't want to miss the pre-dinner cocktails."
At that moment, Idris's phone rang. The screen lit up with a name that made my smile freeze: Raven Hill.
I stood motionless in our entryway as Idris answered with a tenderness I hadn't heard directed at me in years: "What's wrong? What happened?"
Raven's trembling voice carried through the speaker, "Idris, there's a problem with the contract, the investors are furious... I don't know what to do."
Idris's entire demeanor changed, his voice tightening with concern I'd never been worthy of: "Don't worry. Tell me exactly what's wrong."
A knot formed in my stomach, heavy and painful. I already knew what was coming.
When he ended the call, Idris finally turned to me, his eyes avoiding mine. "I'm sorry, something urgent came up. We'll have to reschedule."
"Is it about Raven?" My voice quivered despite my efforts. "Is it so urgent that we can't—"
"It's just work," he cut me off, already loosening his tie and heading back to the bedroom. No detailed explanation, no genuine apology, just a hollow promise: "We'll go another time."
I watched as he hurriedly changed from his dinner suit, grabbed his car keys, and headed for the door.
What hurt most was that he didn't look back—not once—as the door closed behind him.
I stood alone in my beautiful dress, makeup perfect, heart breaking. I sank onto our pristine white sofa, staring at my reflection in the dark windows.
I looked at myself at the woman who had spent years trying to be enough for a man who would always choose someone else.
Each time, Idris had a perfect excuse. Each time, Raven's name had been somewhere in the explanation, directly or indirectly.
The realization washed over me like ice water: in Idris's heart, Raven would always come first. I was merely a convenient wife, a placeholder, nothing more.
