I Let Them Think They Won - Chapter 6: Chapter 6
You are reading I Let Them Think They Won, Chapter 6: Chapter 6. Read more chapters of I Let Them Think They Won.
Cassie's POV
Max spun toward Violet with unnatural urgency. "Violet, let's wrap up early today," he said, his voice too bright, his smile too wide. Like a kid shooing away witnesses before raiding the cookie jar.
"Sure thing," she chirped, scooping up files in record time. Her fingers lingered unnecessarily on some documents, rearranging what didn't need rearranging.
"See you tomorrow," she purred, eyes glinting like polished knives as they flicked to Max. He gave her a casual nod that fooled no one—least of all me.
I nearly choked on my own scoff.
The second the door clicked shut, Max transformed—shoulders relaxing, face softening as he turned to me. "Come here," he murmured, arms opening like some romantic lead in a bad movie.
I sidestepped his embrace. "I'm good," I said, forcing a smile that hurt my cheeks.
His eyebrows knitted together. "You okay?"
"Just chilly," I lied, hugging myself tighter. "And you're freezing too. Not exactly craving an ice pack hug right now."
Max laughed like this was adorable. "Then I'll turn myself into your personal space heater," he teased, wagging his eyebrows.
I managed a laugh while my stomach roiled. His skin still carried the crime scene evidence—cloying perfume mixed with sweat, the unmistakable stench of his betrayal. Yet here he stood, playing doting husband with the same hands that had just been all over her.
"I got you some presents," he announced, like this excused everything. "Had them send over those peonies you love too."
"How thoughtful," I said, my voice sweet as artificial sweetener.
He stepped closer, oozing faux concern. "Don't stress about my workload, okay? Gotta spoil my wife rotten."
I tilted my head, the picture of wifely concern. "Just don't burn out, darling. Your health matters more than trinkets."
His chest puffed up at my performance. "Shower quick, then I'm all yours," he promised, already halfway to the bathroom.
The moment the water turned on, my smile shattered. I collapsed onto the couch, the weight of his lies pressing down like physical stones.
Disgust coated my tongue as I scanned the room. The charade was over. The man I'd married didn't exist—just a cheap impersonator hiding behind gifts and empty words.
Next morning, Violet arrived like a parade float—arms overflowing with designer bags, velvet jewelry boxes, and enough flowers to stock a botanical garden. The staff scurried around her like worker bees, arranging the gaudy displays exactly as she directed.
Once, I might've swallowed this spectacle as proof of love. Now? Just expensive band-aids for his guilty conscience.
The staff whispered excitedly, eating up the fairytale. I nearly laughed aloud.
Violet, dressed like she'd raided a lingerie catalog, bossed everyone around like she owned the place. "That vase goes by the window," she ordered, then pointed to a side table, "and stack those boxes there."
I let her play house. Soon enough, she could have the whole damn thing—gifts, mansion, even Max.
Each glittering present felt like another slap. Did he think I came that cheap?
Violet picked up a jewel case, wrinkling her nose. "Nice," she lied, "if you're into vintage grandma chic." Her smirk begged for a reaction she wouldn't get.
Then she dropped her bomb with theatrical hesitation: "I'm pregnant."
My organs turned to ice, but my face stayed neutral.
"You're the first to know," she gushed, hands fluttering over her flat stomach. "I'm dying to surprise him—he'll be over the moon!" Her eyes gleamed with vicious delight. "Promise you won't spoil it?"
I met her gaze dead-on. "How could I tell your boyfriend when I don't even know him?"
Violet's laugh could've cut glass. "Oh please," she sneered, "like you could miss him."
Her words detonated inside me. Max had knocked her up?
I kept my face still while my insides screamed.
Max spun toward Violet with unnatural urgency. "Violet, let's wrap up early today," he said, his voice too bright, his smile too wide. Like a kid shooing away witnesses before raiding the cookie jar.
"Sure thing," she chirped, scooping up files in record time. Her fingers lingered unnecessarily on some documents, rearranging what didn't need rearranging.
"See you tomorrow," she purred, eyes glinting like polished knives as they flicked to Max. He gave her a casual nod that fooled no one—least of all me.
I nearly choked on my own scoff.
The second the door clicked shut, Max transformed—shoulders relaxing, face softening as he turned to me. "Come here," he murmured, arms opening like some romantic lead in a bad movie.
I sidestepped his embrace. "I'm good," I said, forcing a smile that hurt my cheeks.
His eyebrows knitted together. "You okay?"
"Just chilly," I lied, hugging myself tighter. "And you're freezing too. Not exactly craving an ice pack hug right now."
Max laughed like this was adorable. "Then I'll turn myself into your personal space heater," he teased, wagging his eyebrows.
I managed a laugh while my stomach roiled. His skin still carried the crime scene evidence—cloying perfume mixed with sweat, the unmistakable stench of his betrayal. Yet here he stood, playing doting husband with the same hands that had just been all over her.
"I got you some presents," he announced, like this excused everything. "Had them send over those peonies you love too."
"How thoughtful," I said, my voice sweet as artificial sweetener.
He stepped closer, oozing faux concern. "Don't stress about my workload, okay? Gotta spoil my wife rotten."
I tilted my head, the picture of wifely concern. "Just don't burn out, darling. Your health matters more than trinkets."
His chest puffed up at my performance. "Shower quick, then I'm all yours," he promised, already halfway to the bathroom.
The moment the water turned on, my smile shattered. I collapsed onto the couch, the weight of his lies pressing down like physical stones.
Disgust coated my tongue as I scanned the room. The charade was over. The man I'd married didn't exist—just a cheap impersonator hiding behind gifts and empty words.
Next morning, Violet arrived like a parade float—arms overflowing with designer bags, velvet jewelry boxes, and enough flowers to stock a botanical garden. The staff scurried around her like worker bees, arranging the gaudy displays exactly as she directed.
Once, I might've swallowed this spectacle as proof of love. Now? Just expensive band-aids for his guilty conscience.
The staff whispered excitedly, eating up the fairytale. I nearly laughed aloud.
Violet, dressed like she'd raided a lingerie catalog, bossed everyone around like she owned the place. "That vase goes by the window," she ordered, then pointed to a side table, "and stack those boxes there."
I let her play house. Soon enough, she could have the whole damn thing—gifts, mansion, even Max.
Each glittering present felt like another slap. Did he think I came that cheap?
Violet picked up a jewel case, wrinkling her nose. "Nice," she lied, "if you're into vintage grandma chic." Her smirk begged for a reaction she wouldn't get.
Then she dropped her bomb with theatrical hesitation: "I'm pregnant."
My organs turned to ice, but my face stayed neutral.
"You're the first to know," she gushed, hands fluttering over her flat stomach. "I'm dying to surprise him—he'll be over the moon!" Her eyes gleamed with vicious delight. "Promise you won't spoil it?"
I met her gaze dead-on. "How could I tell your boyfriend when I don't even know him?"
Violet's laugh could've cut glass. "Oh please," she sneered, "like you could miss him."
Her words detonated inside me. Max had knocked her up?
I kept my face still while my insides screamed.
End of I Let Them Think They Won Chapter 6. Continue reading Chapter 7 or return to I Let Them Think They Won book page.