Good Wives Finish Last: Revenge of the Billionaire's Ex Wife

"And that's how you get the petals to curl just right," I said, my voice honey-sweet, my smile aching in muscles I didn't even know existed in my face. "Love and patience, darlings. That's all any recipe really needs."

Lies. All of it.

They needed Ambien to sleep through the 4 a.m. alarm. This concealer was tough enough to cover up those dark circles that simply wouldn't go away. You could smile even when your heart was being ripped apart.

The chat was filled with blurry pink hearts and prayer hands. You're glowing, Saint! Someone typed. I was not radiant. That lighting and my acting were the only things keeping me together.

"Mommy!"

Ares, a chaotic whirlwind in fancy Spider-Man pyjamas, appeared. "Hudson's dad treated him to Japanese wagyu for breakfast... I want..."

"We discussed this, remember?" I didn't stammer. The camera always captured it clearly. "I could prepare something even more extraordinary for you-"

"You're always saying that." He was already leaving because he was bored. "You're so regular now."

Regular. With a smile, I frosted pastries for strangers on a marble surface at daybreak, maintaining the consistency of the glaze.

"Look! Aunt Iris's Kelly bag is here!" Aria appeared, a nine-year-old who was already an expert on the waiting lists for luxury brands. "In THREE DAYS. I've been on the waitlist for sixty days. TWO MONTHS, Mom. What did you even do?"

"Sweetheart, these things take-"

Wait... why did a nine-year-old need a designer bag anyway?

"You are of no use!" Her blonde ringlets bounced as she strutted away. I had taught her to do those curls. She had been four, laughing in the bathroom mirror, letting me practice braids before her first day of preschool. Now she called me useless on camera. The chat thought it was cute.

Fourteen-year-old Iris, my step-daughter, stood behind us, holding her phone up. Constantly recording. Iris uploaded three TikTok videos daily, and the series was called "My Mom the Influencer." Last week's video had featured me crying about burnt cookies, and it had gotten two million views. People in the comments said they could relate.

I exhaled a breath, my hands remaining perfectly still. I had improved.

"Erina."

The voice sliced through the show like a knife. Cassandra Costas entered the scene at 8 a.m. in Mikimoto pearls, naturally. My mother-in-law was always ready to judge.

"Kneeling is unbecoming," she announced, "of a Costas wife."

My knees shrieked as I stood up smoothly. The motion was lovely for the camera-graceful, elegant, and perfectly obedient. "You're right, Cassandra. I should-"

"The livestream." Her mouth pinched. "Must you air our mornings to strangers?"

Our mornings. As if she was here every day. It was like all she did was judge my parenting, my style, and my very existence.

"It's my job," I said softly. I loved this; I could pretend it was just acting.

"Your job is this family."

As she left, the scent of Chanel No. 5 lingered, along with my deep disappointment.

Then it was Daphne's turn, Zayden's sister and my sister-in-law, a professional complainer. "The pool is point-eight degrees too cold. I made a request for eighty-three, specifically. This is eighty-two-point-two."

"I'll have it adjusted-"

"You always say that." She was scrolling through her phone, not even looking at me. "You're so unreliable, Rina."

Rina. The nickname grated. That was what Zayden called me, usually when he was bored.

I was framing a response when I smelled it.

"Morning, Sister."

The voice sounded like a sweet music box. Scarlett's descent resembled a Pre-Raphaelite painting: tousled blonde hair, glowing skin, and a too-large, unbuttoned men's shirt.

She was wearing his shirt.

She was twenty-one. I had practically raised her after her parents died when she was seven. I had braided her hair for school photos. I had taught her to ride a bike. I had held her through nightmares. And now, she smelled like sex and male cologne.

"The rolls smell..." She paused at the counter, plucked one from the cooling rack, and took a bite. "...desperate today, Sister."

The chat exploded with heart emojis. Their relationship is GOALS!

My stomach dropped into my knees.

"Well, darlings." My voice didn't crack. It never cracked. "That's all the time we have today."

I reached for the ring light with fingers that felt completely detached from my body. "Remember-" The sign-off stuck in my throat like ground glass, but I forced it out. "-love fiercely."

The light died. The smile dropped.

Scarlett licked her fingers clean and walked away in my husband's shirt. Why was she wearing his shirt?

I remained in the kitchen, surrounded by untouched pastries, and I realized I had been holding my breath, causing tunnel vision.

Love fiercely, I had told them. What a fucking joke.

From somewhere down the hall, I heard Scarlett laugh. It was light and easy-the sound of someone who felt safe enough to be careless.

"I like staying here," she said to someone I could not see. "This house is warm. Just like our old house."

Her old house. The one that had burned down. The one I had helped her leave behind. The one I believed I had replaced. Her voice drifted closer, unguarded and familiar, as if she belonged here. As if she always had.

And right then, I understood.

The children did not cling to her because she was permissive. They clung because she never corrected them. She never raised her voice. She never told them who they should be. She laughed when they spilled things. She lets them interrupt. She listened like nothing else mattered.

She did not parent. She comforted.

I thought of how easily they mirrored her now. Not a mother-a refuge.

My hands stayed put on the counter as she walked by. My chest felt a familiar stirring beneath her laughter, a feeling from long ago. She was likely in bed with my husband now. Her laughter made my chest tighten with a subtle sense of knowing I had carried since long ago, even before the house and the marriage.

I understood then how easily comfort became intimacy. And I knew, with the same calm certainty, exactly where she would be sleeping tonight.

I turned back to the sink. The plates were still dirty. I scrubbed them slowly, methodically, while I watched my twins at the table, their heads bent together, giggling over something small and private.

The sound was soft. Ordinary. Safe.

I did not interrupt it.