The CEO's Fatal Obsession

At our seventh wedding anniversary dinner, his personal assistant Victoria leaned over and whispered in Spanish: "I'm pregnant."

Nathan responded in Spanish: "Really? My darling?"

"Of course it's true." Victoria made no effort to hide the smugness in her voice. Her fingers traced Nathan's inner thigh beneath the tablecloth. "Remember that rainy night in Geneva? You said you had a surprise for me..."

Nathan's eyes grew heated: "I remember. That black lace you wore that night..."

"Stop it, you bad man." Victoria laughed softly, interrupting him. "Your wife is right there."

"She doesn't understand Spanish." Nathan continued speaking to Victoria, "Tonight at ten, the usual place. We need to celebrate this good news properly."

The cutlery slipped from my hands.

My stomach suddenly churned with nausea. It had been happening these past few days—morning sickness, fatigue, and those signs I'd been ignoring.

Nathan immediately snapped back to attention, his expression instantly switching to devoted husband mode.

He bent down to pick up my utensils: "Honey, what's wrong?"

Just moments ago discussing children with his mistress, now tenderly holding my hand. This seamless transition made me sick.

I pulled my hand away: "What were you two talking about?"

"Problems with the Spanish trials." His eyes flickered. "Just trivial matters, didn't want to worry you."

Nathan didn't know I'd learned Spanish since childhood. My grandfather Edmund Whitmore had controlled Europe's largest medical empire, requiring every family child to master at least five languages from an early age.

Spanish—I understood every single word.

'What people say behind your back is often more important than what they say to your face,' grandfather's words echoed in my mind. 'Learn to understand those words, and you can protect yourself.'

I set down my knife and fork: "You two continue. I need some air on the balcony."

Nathan instinctively started to rise, but Victoria suddenly coughed softly, pressing her hand to her chest, feigning breathing difficulties.

"I feel a bit unwell..." she said in Spanish.

Nathan immediately stopped moving, looking at her with concern.

"Need me to come with you?" he asked me, but his eyes had already drifted to Victoria.

"No need."

I turned and walked through the crowd. As CEO of Kane Medical Group, Nathan was tonight's center of attention, while I, a chief cardiac surgeon, was forever just "Mrs. Kane" in everyone's eyes.

Along the way, people constantly raised their glasses:

"Mrs. Kane is so fortunate."

"A husband like Nathan is rare—successful CEO of Kane Medical, accomplished and devoted."

Each word cut like a knife into my heart.

If they knew this "devoted" husband had just discussed naming his illegitimate child in front of me, would they still say such things?

No one knew that last month I'd discovered that backup phone in Nathan's study. The password was my parents' death anniversary—he'd once held me and said: "Celeste, from now on I'll protect you in their place, until my last breath."

The videos on the backup phone were neatly arranged by date.

I saw Victoria lying half-naked on his office sofa, still flushed from their passion. She smiled at the camera:

"Your wife was just waiting for you downstairs with a love lunch, like a little dog waiting for its master to come home. Poor thing, she has no idea what we're doing upstairs."

The most heartbreaking was the final clip.

Nathan held her from behind, chin resting on her shoulder: "Don't mention her. She's just my... perfect camouflage. A tool to make people think I'm a good man."

So all those years of ironing his shirts, remembering every anniversary, keeping a light on for him during late nights—to him I was just a tool.

A decoration to make him look respectable.

My hands trembled with rage, my chest felt like it had been struck.

That night I put the phone back exactly where I found it, then began contacting the Whitmore family's network.

Grandfather had left me more than wealth—he'd left me a protective network spanning the globe.

I pushed open the balcony glass door. My phone buzzed in my purse.

Encrypted message: "New identity ready. Flight tomorrow afternoon at 3 PM. Confirm complete disappearance?"

"Confirmed. Leave no trace."

"After execution, Celeste Kane will legally cease to exist. If Mr. Kane investigates—"

"He won't." I replied quickly. "He's busy playing daddy-to-be. Besides, tools can be replaced when lost, can't they?"

The sent confirmation flashed and disappeared.

Just then, familiar footsteps approached from behind.

"Who are you texting?"