Sorry, Mr. Stanford, Your Wife Owns You - Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Before I could utter a word, the line went dead with a sharp click.
The conference room hummed with barely contained glee. All eyes were glued to me, waiting for the moment I'd crack under pressure.
Anne sauntered toward me with that trademark swagger of hers, oozing superiority from every pore. "I warned Leonard ages ago you weren't cut out for this company," she sneered. "At our level, we only keep the best of the best."
She tilted her head, feigning sympathy. "Honestly? You'd be better off at home—doing laundry, making soup, perfecting that whole housewife routine."
Then came the knife twist, delivered with her signature smirk: "Wouldn't want to end up in a situation where you're failing at work and losing your husband too, now would you? That'd be tragic."
Her sycophantic audience erupted in cruel laughter as Anne's words hung in the air, thick with venom.
I let the faintest smile play on my lips, meeting her gaze with deliberate confusion. "Wait—let me get this straight. You're saying the company doesn't need me... and neither does Leonard?"
Anne's sudden burst of laughter was so forceful it seemed to make the floral centerpieces shudder. "God, you're priceless!" she gasped between giggles.
"Let's recap your stellar performance, shall we? Chronic lateness, early departures, zero respect for leadership. More time spent touching up your lipstick than actually working. Tasks perpetually unfinished."
She leaned in, her voice dropping to a vicious whisper. "And at home? Let's not forget how you neglect your husband, refuse to give him children, can't even be bothered to check on him when he comes home wasted from business dinners."
Anne straightened up, spreading her hands. "So tell me—what exactly do you bring to the table?"
My smile turned glacial. "My value?" I let the question hang for a beat. "I'm the reason people like you and Leonard still have food on your plates."
The room erupted again—but this time in disbelief. My next words landed like a grenade: "If I walk away, Stanford Group collapses overnight."
Their mocking laughter crescendoed, but none of them grasped the truth behind my words—what I truly meant to Leonard, to the entire Stanford empire.
Years ago, Nelson Stanford had appeared at my father's door clutching a bloodstained photograph, spinning tales of wartime brotherhood with my grandfather. How he'd saved his life in some forgotten trench. That old debt became his bargaining chip for my hand in marriage.
I'd been abroad at the time, already disillusioned with romantic notions. Marriage was inevitable—why not settle this family debt? Leonard had been presentable enough—fair-skinned, well-mannered, easy on the eyes.
Thankfully, my father wasn't born yesterday. Before giving his blessing, he'd made Nelson sign an ironclad prenup: any betrayal from Leonard would cost the Stanfords everything they'd gained through me.
With my backing, the Stanford Group skyrocketed. A decade's growth compressed into two short years.
But success, it seems, breeds arrogance. Somewhere along the way, Leonard started believing his own hype—convinced he'd outgrown the need for me.
The irony? He'd mistaken the rocket for the astronaut. And rockets without astronauts tend to crash spectacularly.