Chapter 1

My bestie pinged me on WhatsApp as I was serving my husband, Charles Grant, his favorite asparagus with the serving tongs. It read: [Victoria, your husband's ex is something else.]

The vibe at the table was lively, but there was something unspoken in the air.

Today was the welcome party Charles had thrown for his first love, Sophia White, who had returned from Francia.

The party was held at the most exclusive private restaurant in town, and the table was packed with people. All of them were childhood friends of Charles and Sophia.

I was the only outsider. But I was Charles's wife.

Sophia was dressed in a Chanel haute couture gown, her makeup flawless, every gesture radiating the kind of elegance that only years in Riverton could cultivate.

She was chatting away in fluent Francian with another friend who'd recently returned from abroad.

Charles sat beside me, but his eyes were glued to Sophia as if she was a magnet while he was a piece of metal.

The way Charles looked at her, full of nostalgia and infatuation, was practically written all over his face.

I kept smiling, acting as if I hadn't noticed a thing, playing the part of the perfect, gracious wife.

"Charles, your wife is so thoughtful. Unlike mine, she wouldn't even lift a finger around the house," one of his childhood friends joked.

Charles snapped out of it, gave a half-hearted smile, and patted the back of my hand, his tone laced with a hint of pride. "She can't do much else, but she's great at taking care of people."

It sounded like a compliment, but I could hear the contempt in his voice, as if my only value was being his personal maid.

Sophia finally let her gaze land on me, looking me up and down as if she was appraising a piece of merchandise.

Then she turned to Charles, still speaking in Francian, her voice pitched so everyone could catch it, a faint smile curling her red lips. "Elle est vraiment une idiote, tu l'as trouvée où?" (She's an idiot. Where on earth did you pick her up?)

The people at the table who understood Francian shared sly grins, their eyes flickering with pity and ridicule as they glanced my way.

Even those who didn't speak Francian could tell from their faces that something was up, and the whole vibe at the table got weirder.

Charles looked awkward for a second, his expression a little stiff.

He didn't bother to defend me, but let out a forced laugh and shot back in Francian, "Arrête tes bêtises." (Stop talking nonsense.)

Was he defending me? But to me, it sounded more like lovers flirting.

My knuckles went white as I gripped my fork.

Everyone thought I didn't understand, figuring that I was some clueless, small-town housewife who didn't belong here. Charles was no different.

He turned to me, patting my head as if I was a pet, and said in a gentle voice, "Sophia thinks you're pretty."

I looked up and gave him a sweet smile. "Really? Then I should thank her."

I raised my wine glass, stood up, and locked eyes with Sophia. I spoke in flawless Amerish, each word sharp and clear, making sure everyone heard me. "Miss White, thanks for the compliment. But honestly, I'd rather be known for my brains than my looks.

"After all, looks are an advantage, but living smart is a real skill. Wouldn't you agree?"

As soon as I finished, I watched Sophia's elegant smile freeze right on her face.

Charles's reaction was even more priceless.

He probably never imagined that his so-called "idiot" wife, the one who could barely speak a foreign language and only knew how to take care of people, would drop such a bombshell at the party he'd thrown for his first love.

The air at the table froze. Everyone was staring back and forth between Sophia and me.

I held Sophia's stunned gaze, smiled, and knocked back my glass of red wine in one smooth motion.

The real drama was getting started.