Chapter One – A House of Lies l
The morning sunlight filtered through the tall windows of the Park Avenue penthouse, gilding the room in a soft, deceptive glow. The kind that could almost make Helen Ross believe everything was still intact.
But nothing was.
She stood alone in the kitchen, the polished marble counters as pristine as ever. The mug of Earl Grey in her hand had gone cold. The silence in the room wasn't serene—it was oppressive. A quiet so unnatural, it felt like the breath before a scream.
In her reflection on the brushed steel kettle, Helen barely recognized herself. Chestnut hair fell in loose waves around her shoulders, her face pale, eyes hollow. She still dressed as though she belonged to a life that mattered—an elegant cream blouse, tailored grey slacks. She wore the role of Steven's wife well. For years, she'd played it flawlessly.
But even perfection had a shelf life.
She had opened Steven's shared cloud account only to retrieve a receipt for a client dinner he claimed had run over budget. Just a mundane errand. But between balance sheets and board memos, a folder stood out—marked simply: "Personal."
Curiosity didn't drive her. Instinct did.
She clicked.
And her world began to unravel.
Photos. Dozens. Children. A boy and a girl. The boy, perhaps eight years old. The girl, no more than five. They bore Steven's unmistakable features—his ice-blue eyes, the cleft in the chin, the unruly dark hair.
And they were not hers.
Helen stared, breath caught in her throat.
Beside the children stood a woman: Valerie Knight.
Striking. Raven-haired. Smiling in some photos, scowling in others. She looked like a woman who had waited too long for something she would never receive. Helen remembered her only faintly—a name mentioned once, maybe twice. A former executive assistant at Steven's firm who had left suddenly under "personal complications."
Now she knew what those were.
The folder held more than photos. There were emails—years of them. Angry ones. Passionate ones. Pleading ones. Valerie accusing Steven of abandoning her and their children, demanding financial support, threatening legal action. And then… messages that shifted in tone. Laced with innuendo, carelessness. Rekindled intimacy. As if he couldn't resist her. As if he never really left.
But it was a message sent just three weeks ago that hit Helen like a knife to the chest:
> "Baby I love you because you are sweet on bed and you have been a source of financial assistance to me. I know that sometimes you disturb me to provide money for you. I cannot rely on my poor broke wife for money."
Her ears rang.
She read it again.
Steven had called her "broke". The woman who'd funded his business during its infancy with her inheritance. Who had paid the down payment on this penthouse. Who hosted client dinners when no one would take his calls.
She was broke, apparently.
Helen's hands trembled, the mug slipping slightly in her grasp. She set it down before it shattered.
Steven Ross was a powerful man. CEO of StratCore Ventures, a boutique private equity firm with sharp teeth and a sleek Manhattan headquarters. On the outside, he was a visionary—bold, assertive, magnetic. He spoke at finance summits, posed in GQ spreads, and flaunted his "rags to riches" story to investors desperate for a piece of his ambition.
But behind the gloss, he was something else.
Helen remembered overhearing Steven once, half-drunk on whiskey during a holiday party, whispering to a friend, "Helen's great for optics. Classic. Polished. The kind of wife investors like to see—never complains, never demands. She's… safe."
Safe.
That was her value to him. Not love. Not partnership. A calculated prop.
The emails made it worse. Steven telling Valerie how dull Helen had become. "She's more like a museum piece," he wrote. "You dust it off once in a while, but you don't touch it. Valerie, you burn me and make me feel like wanting you by my side all night. Helen is a boring woman"
Helen's chest ached so sharply she had to grip the edge of the counter.She remembers that Steven enjoys her company and he also enjoys having sex with her because of her sexy appearance,beauty and curves.This made her feel like an object.
Steven wanted her for his sexual satisfaction and he also enjoys the company of this former wife Valerie because he is promiscuous in nature.
Eleven years.
No children—because Steven had said he wasn't ready. No career—because he wanted her available for his needs. No infidelity—because she believed in vows. In truth.
Now she stood in the middle of a life designed by a man who had long since stopped seeing her as anything more than convenient furniture.
The apartment, immaculate and cold, mirrored the truth: it had never been a home. It was a showroom for his ambition. The art on the walls was curated by an interior designer, not love. The peonies in the vase? Her touch—but wasted.
She made her way to the living room, each step heavier than the last. Her body felt distant, detached, like it belonged to someone else. The pain wasn't loud—it was consuming. A suffocating stillness in her bones.
She sat on the couch, rigid and motionless.
It wasn't the affair that broke her.
It wasn't the children.
It was the contempt. The dismissal. The realization that Steven had mocked her kindness in the arms of another woman. That he had rewarded her loyalty with scorn.
She thought of the years—of staying through the late nights, the angry moods, the hollow sex, the endless excuses. Of standing beside him during lawsuits, public scandals, and shareholder disputes. And through it all, she believed they were a team.
Now she knew—Steven never played on her side.
She stood with purpose, moved to the bedroom, and pulled out a suitcase. Folded her clothes with quiet resolve. Packed only what mattered—her sketchbook, her mother's ring, a worn leather-bound journal.
She left behind the diamonds. The gifts. The pieces of her that had been purchased to keep her still.
No note.
No goodbye.
No confrontation.
That would come in time—if she chose to give him that much.
She walked out.
Out of the penthouse.
Out of the lie.
Out of the version of herself that had learned to survive by shrinking.
As the elevator doors closed, Helen Ross didn't feel like a woman scorned.
She felt like a woman being reborn.
--
Steven Ross entered the apartment, loosening his tie as he stepped across the marble floor. It was nearly midnight. He expected the usual: Helen seated on the velvet chaise with a book open in her lap, a glass of wine nearby, maybe the faint scent of lavender from her diffuser. She rarely waited up anymore, but her presence always lingered—warm, poised, calm.
Tonight, it was gone.
He moved through the apartment, calling her name once, casually. No reply. The silence pressed against him like a weight. Something was off. Her coat wasn't on the rack. Her favorite heels were missing from their spot by the door. Her jewelry tray was empty.
A dull throb stirred behind his temples.
Steven moved through the bedroom, checking the closet.
Half of it was bare.
His pulse quickened. The suitcase. The missing garments. The absence of her favorite perfume. It wasn't just a night away.
Helen was gone.
He dropped onto the edge of the bed, the realization sinking like a stone in his gut.
She knew.
He hadn't needed confirmation. The moment he saw the closet—orderly but stripped of her essence—he understood. She had seen something. Found something. Felt something he never thought she would dare embrace: betrayal.
He ran a hand through his dark, graying hair, fingers trembling. For a man who had always appeared in control—charismatic, commanding, sharply dressed in tailored suits—Steven suddenly looked... older. Exhausted. Like the foundation beneath his carefully constructed world had cracked.
His phone buzzed.
It wasn't her.
It was Valerie.
He ignored it.
For the first time in years, her name disgusted him.
He stood slowly and walked to Helen's vanity—an elegant glass table with delicate gold trim. A photo frame still sat there. Him and Helen at a charity gala, five years ago. She was radiant in emerald green, her smile bright, her eyes full of a devotion he hadn't deserved. He looked smug beside her, already drifting away.
The guilt hit him like a punch to the chest.
God, what had he done?
Helen wasn't just his wife. She was the quiet force behind every one of his victories. The woman who read his contracts when his lawyers missed fine print. The one who noticed which investors were bluffing at poker nights. The woman who calmed him during PR disasters, reminded him who he was when he lost sight of himself.
She was the steady flame behind his throne—and he had extinguished her.
Now, the cold was setting in.
Steven staggered into the kitchen, poured himself a drink, but his hands shook too much to lift the glass. He leaned against the counter, staring at nothing, haunted by memories.
The first time she fixed his tie before a board meeting.
The way she stood beside him when he almost lost his company five years ago.
Her laugh—the real one—when they used to dance barefoot in their old apartment, before the money made everything stiff and scripted.
He sank into a stool and buried his face in his hands.
He had thought Helen would never leave. That she would stay, like a lighthouse in his storm, always forgiving, always loyal.
But now she was gone.
And for the first time in his life, Steven Ross felt something he couldn't negotiate, buy, or charm his way out of.
Loss.
The apartment, once a symbol of power and perfection, felt like a museum of regret.
He was alone—and this time, it was his fault.
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