When the Housewife Became His Boss

On our seventh anniversary, Jeffrey brought his mistress home for dinner.

Calla wore my dead mother's necklace and called me a "boring housewife" while I cooked for them. Jeffrey laughed, saying I was lucky he kept me around since I'd never contributed anything to our marriage.

What he didn't know? I'd given up my six-figure tech career to nurse him back from his car accident. Sacrificed everything while he treated me like his personal servant.

For seven years, I endured his cheating and cruelty, thinking love meant sacrifice.

I was wrong.

When I left him the divorce papers, Jeffrey screamed that I'd come crawling back within a week.

But when I never came back, he was the one who lost his mind.

Wren's POV

"Wren, make two more truffle pasta dishes. Calla's been working for ten hours straight on tonight's product launch, and her stomach can't handle all that greasy takeout."

That was the first thing Jeffrey said to me when he walked through the door.

Today was our seventh wedding anniversary.

I stood at the kitchen island, dishrag in hand. On the dining table sat the Wellington beef and French bisque I'd spent all afternoon preparing. The candles had nearly burned down, the beef stone cold.

Jeffrey tossed his suit jacket onto the couch. Behind him walked Calla, his company's newly promoted PR manager.

She wore a silk slip dress and red-bottom heels, smirking at my cheap floral apron.

"Jeffrey, your wife's style is so... quaint. I thought Silicon Valley executives' wives would dress like celebrities."

Jeffrey loosened his tie without looking at me. "Her? All she thinks about now are grocery coupons. Don't mind her—go sit on the couch and rest."

I watched him. I felt nothing. Seven years of marriage had taught me to expect Jeffrey's dismissal and contempt.

But it hadn't always been like this. We'd been sweet once. Back then, he called me the smartest, most beautiful woman he'd ever met. Said he'd give me the best life in the world.

Everything changed five years ago.

Jeffrey had been in a terrible car accident, nearly losing both legs. I quit my six-figure job to care for him, cut off all social connections, pushed his wheelchair through physical therapy, cooked his meals, stayed by his side through his darkest moments.

He recovered. His career soared. He became Silicon Valley's newest tech mogul. And me? I became the frumpy housewife good for nothing but chores.

Jeffrey frowned. "What are you standing there for? Didn't you hear what I said?"

"There's no pasta left."

"Wren, what's this attitude about? I'm exhausted—I don't have time for your moods."

"Today is our wedding anniversary." I pointed to the cold beef.

Jeffrey glanced over. "I forgot. We've been married forever—why bother with all this fancy stuff? You're supposed to take care of the house. Now go cook that pasta before Calla thinks we're a joke."

Love doesn't last forever. It wears away.

I untied my apron and threw it on the counter. "Cook it yourself. I'm not your maid."

"WREN!" Jeffrey shot to his feet. "You can't even handle this simple task? You're spending MY money, living in MY house—I even pay for that piece of junk car! And cooking one bowl of pasta is too much to ask?"

"Jeffrey, don't get upset." Calla took his arm. "Wren's probably hitting menopause early—mood swings, you know? Let's just order takeout."

Menopause. I'm thirty years old.

Watching them together, I felt weirdly calm. So this was what it meant to have your heart die—even anger felt pointless.

I turned toward the stairs.

"You STOP right there! Walk up those stairs tonight, and you'll never see another dime from me!"

I didn't stop. Back in the bedroom, I locked the door.

I walked to my desk and opened the laptop I hadn't used in ages. The screen glowed to life.

I clicked on a hidden encrypted folder and entered a complex password. Inside lay a drafted divorce agreement.

Footsteps outside. Jeffrey was turning the doorknob.

"Wren, open this door!"

My heart skipped. If he found the divorce papers, he'd make sure I left with nothing.

The doorknob rattled violently.

"JEFFREY!" Calla shrieked from downstairs. "I spilled wine all over your documents!"

"DAMN IT! Those are tomorrow's core data files!" Jeffrey cursed and thundered downstairs.

I exhaled, cold sweat on my back.

Divorce was necessary, but I couldn't leave with nothing. I needed money. I needed leverage.

I took a deep breath and began typing. The screen flickered, then went black.

The dark web.

Five years ago, I was one of the top cybersecurity experts here, codename "Ghost." I once brought down North America's largest hacker collective in ten minutes flat.

I entered my old account credentials.

Login successful.

My inbox exploded—countless bounty offers flooding in. I scrolled to the pinned red priority bounty:

"URGENT: European multinational bank hit by ransomware attack. Seeking elite white hat for decryption. $100K deposit, $400K upon completion."

Half a million dollars. More than enough to start over.

Jeffrey, you think I'm living off your money, that I can't survive without you. But you'll never know that I used to make more with a few keystrokes than you earn in a year.

Five years away from this world—could my skills still keep up?

Downstairs, I heard Jeffrey and Calla's low conversation, her deliberate laughter. I closed my eyes.

Even if I failed, it had to be better than continuing to live like this—small and worthless.

I clicked "Accept Contract."