I found out my husband was gossiping about me with his work mates, so I decided to give him a little surprise at the office party.
Honestly, James, are you still in that fluffy robe? How many times have I asked you to buy something decent for home wear? A proper suit or a nice pyjamas would be lovely. This looks like a relic, I swear. He grimaced, pushing his coffee away.
Emma froze, a towel still wrapped around her. The robe was clean, thick, a soft peach colour. Itd been three years old, but it was warm and cosy, especially now that November wind was howling outside and the heating was only halfon.
James, its just a robe. Ive just stepped out of the shower. And you gave it to me on International Womens Day, remember? she said quietly, trying not to turn a morning scuffle into a fullblown fight.
Gave it I was just thinking youd wear it from the bathroom straight to the bedroom, not live in it. Anyway, did you iron the shirt? Ive got a meeting with the boss, then need to catch the logistics team, so Ill be late. Dont wait up for dinner. He snapped off his jacket, gave his reflection a quick onceover tidy, fresh, scented with the pricey cologne Emma had picked out for him and without a kiss, slammed the door.
Emma sighed and sank onto the ottoman in the hallway, listening to the sudden quiet. Lately that quiet has felt sharp, like a taut string. Somethings off with James. Theres no obvious sign of cheating he doesnt hide his phone, he hasnt changed passwords, hes not splashing cash. But his attitude has shifted completely: hes irritable, cold, constantly nitpicking my looks, my cooking, the house.
What mess could there be? Emma works from home as an accountant, keeps the flat spotless, whips up a proper dinner and even a homemade jam. She always thought their marriage was solid: ten years together, the mortgage almost paid off, kids on the horizon. Now she feels like an old suitcase without a handle heavy to carry, too sad to toss.
She walked into the kitchen to put away Jamess coffee mug. On the table, beside his halfempty brew, lay his tablet. He usually takes it to work for charts and news, but today hed left it in his rush. The screen blinked with a new notification.
Emma never snoops on Jamess gadgets it feels beneath her. Still, the popup caught her eye.
*Blythe: Hey, did your monster finally let you out? Meet at the bar, Toms buying!*
Her stomach dropped. Monster? What the heck did that mean?
She trembled as she lifted the tablet. She knew the password the year they married and James never changed it, thinking there was nothing to hide. The lock lifted, revealing the messenger app.
The chat was called Sales Team Elite, about ten members, buzzing with banter. Emma scrolled up, her face paling with each line, her heart thudding like a drum.
*James:* Whats with the dinner, lads? Shes made soggy spaghetti again. I told her to make a steak and she says meats pricey. That accountants useless. She stays home, chubby, while Im starving for a decent meal.
*Blythe:* Poor James! How do you survive with her? You need a real firecracker, not a pale moth.
*James:* Its habit, Blythe. Whos gonna wash my socks? Shed crumble without me no friends, no hobbies. Shes stuck in that dirty robe, bingewatching soaps. I come home and she whines about headaches from lying on the sofa?
*Victor:* Mate, just get a divorce. Why suffer?
*James:* Well finish the mortgage first, then Ill think. The flats in my name, but mum helped with the deposit, so therell be a lot of legal hassle. For now its convenient. Eat, sleep, work, repeat. My mates are my life.
Tears slipped onto the cold screen. He wasnt just talking about her, he was slandering her, painting her as lazy, stupid, untidy. He claimed she didnt work (even though her accountant salary was equal to his), that she didnt care for herself, that she nagged him day and night.
Blythe, a sharpeyed brunette with a predatory grin, kept feeding Jamess narrative, pitying poor James and hinting she knew how to handle a real man.
*Blythe:* James, are you coming solo to the Christmas party? The boss said we can bring a plusone this year.
*James:* Are you serious? Shed scare everyone off with that sour face. Ill say its a private staff event, she wont go, shed rather stay home in her robe and rollers.
Emma set the tablet down, longing to jump in a shower and scrub away the grime of ten years of love, care, and shared dreams. She remembered nights when shed stay up while he wrote his dissertation, nursing him through pneumonia, handing over her savings when his car was written off. And now the same man called her a monster and pauper.
The first impulse was to pack his stuff in garbage bags, change the locks, write a long list of grievances. But Emma was an accountant she knew numbers, analysis, and the value of patience. Revenge is a dish best served cold, and her emotions were all over the place.
She stared at her reflection, tears still glistening, but her face still held a spark. Sour face? Rollers? Private party? Fine, lets see what youre really hiding.
That night James stumbled in late, smelling faintly of cheap alcohol and unfamiliar perfume likely Blythes attempt at consoling the suffering husband.
Found the tablet? he asked, not even greeting her.
Yeah, its on the table, Emma replied calmly, lounging with her laptop in the living room. She was in jeans and a white tee; the robe had vanished into the washing machine.
James snatched the tablet, checked if it was still locked (it autolocked after a minute of inactivity, Emma knew), and exhaled.
You look different tonight. Any guests? he asked, suspicious.
Nope. Just dinner on the stove. Ive already eaten.
He was taken aback but said nothing. Usually Emma would set the table, sit close, ask about his day. Tonight she was deliberately distant. Fine, Ill just keep quiet then, he muttered, less whining to hear.
Two weeks left until the Christmas party. Emma used them wisely.
First, she called Jamess office, posing as a bank representative, asking about payroll details and, under the pretense of checking card delivery, inquired about the upcoming party.
Ah, yes! 25 December at the Imperial Restaurant. This year the boss, Victor Harris, is allowing spouses its the companys anniversary! Dress code is Black Tie, very formal, chirped young receptionist Lucy.
Thanks, Emma said, smiling.
Second, she focused on herself. Stress had taken its toll, so she booked a toptier dermatologist, got a fresh bob, and bought a dress an emerald silk number that hugged her curves, split at the thigh, with a daring back. Paired with stilettos, it was a statement piece.
James stayed oblivious, busy with his chat drama and flirting with Blythe. At home he kept his usual condescending tone.
Emma, what are you doing this morning? he grumbled on the 25th. I need a white shirt, not a blue one. We have a big meeting, then a little office buffet. Ill be late.
A buffet? Emma asked, neatly placing his cufflinks back in the drawer. I thought you said it was a party.
He snapped back, Yeah, a party. Just a symbolic one. Well order pizza, maybe a glass of bubbly, then home. Boring. You wont like it just sales talk and logistics.
Alright, good luck. Dont get bored, she replied with a faint smile. He brushed it off as her finally catching up with his obsessive caring.
When the bosss door opened, Emma slipped into a taxi and arrived just before the formal part began. The Imperial glowed with twinkling lights, tuxedos and evening gowns filling the room, live music playing softly. She checked her coat at the cloakroom, stepping out in her emerald masterpiece, fixing her hair.
The effect was instant. Conversations hushed as she passed. Men turned, women glanced approvingly. She scanned the room for the sales team.
There they were. James sat with his back to the entrance, a striking reddressed Blythe perched on his shoulder, laughing loudly at something hed said, her hand lightly touching his arm. Across from them, Victor Harris, the one whod suggested a divorce, stared at them.
Emma walked up, placed her hand on Jamess shoulder.
Evening, mind if I join? she said, voice bright and confident.
Jamess face went from confusion to sheer panic. He swallowed his wine, coughing.
Emma? What what are you doing here?
Just came to support my wonderful husband at the companys anniversary. You mentioned a dull pizza buffet, thought Id spice things up. She smiled.
Blythes laughter stopped, her eyes narrowed, then widened with shock the pale moth was now a radiant woman stealing the spotlight.
Introduce us, James, Emma said, keeping her hand firmly on his shoulder.
Uh everyone, this is my wife, Emma. Emma, this is Blythe, and Victor, Simon James stammered, his cheeks turning a deep crimson that matched Blythes dress.
Victor blurted, James, youve been keeping a treasure hidden! We thought she was a homebody you couldnt pull out of the house!
Emma laughed, taking a seat that Simon courteously pulled out for her. I love a night out. James says I should stay home because Im exhausted from my idle life, as he calls it. She glanced at Blythe. Ive heard a lot about you, Blythe. Supposedly youre the soul of the office?
Blythe tried to recover, Well yeah, I
Emma turned to Victor. Victor, you were the one who suggested I should get a divorce because Id be a pauper without James, right?
Victor turned pale, almost dropping his fork. I I never said that
Ive got a good memory, Emma said, pulling out her phone. And Jamess tablet, which he conveniently leaves unlocked password is the year we married, how romantic. She didnt need to show the messages; their faces said it all.
Just then, a distinguished silverhaired man approached the table.
Good evening! I see the sales department is expanding? he boomed.
Victor Harris! James leapt up, trembling. This is my wife, Emma.
The pleasure is mine, the boss, Mr. Harris, kissed Emmas hand. Finally we meet the lady whos been hiding behind a robe all this time. I thought James was keeping a secret beauty from the competition.
Emma chuckled, He says I look better in a robe. He also claims I sit on his neck. By the way, my annual bonus actually covers his salary, but dont tell him his ego might crack.
Mr. Harris laughed, Well, if a lady of your calibre needs a neck to rest on, youre lucky, James. Weve got plenty of single lads here.
The evening rolled on. Emma became the star, dancing with colleagues, joining chats about the stock market, and gently proving to everyone that she wasnt a stayathome drudge. James sat like a cat on a hot tin roof, barely eating, watching his wife shine. Blythe excused herself after half an hour, citing a headache.
When a slow song started, James tried to grab Emmas hand.
Emma, lets go home. Please, thats enough.
She pulled her hand back. Home? No, James. Im just getting started. You wanted a party wife? Have it.
Sorry, Im an idiot. I was just trying to impress the lads with macho talk, he whispered.
Macho talk is about cars, footy, politics. Dragging your wife through mud isnt macho, its gossip from a market stall. She stood, the music fading.
Ill go home alone. Your things are with the concierge. You can stay at a hotel or with your mum tonight. Tomorrow well sort the finances you mentioned a lot of legal hassle, right? Ill hire good lawyers, Ive got the cash. Im not sitting on your neck any longer.
James pleaded, Dont what about the property? I love you, its all nonsense!
Love? she looked at him with such sadness his heart clenched. You love yourself, James. You love being pitied. Im done being a prop in your poor wife drama. Curtains down.
She turned, walked toward the exit, heels clicking like a verdict.
James was left standing, the room silent, colleagues avoiding his gaze. The martyr complex evaporated, leaving only a liar whod wrecked his own life.
Emma stepped into the frosty night, a taxi waiting. She let herself cry in the back seat, not from grief but from the release of two weeks of pressure and the relief of finally taking control.
She knew divorce would be messy, his mother would call, hed try to win her back, but shed already reclaimed herself. Shed shed the dirty robe hed forced onto her and put on a crown she always deserved.
Back at home, she poured herself a glass of wine, changed the WiFi password, and logged onto a property site. A new life needed new settings.
A month later they were legally split. James tried to win her back with flowers, promises to quit his job, to delete the chats. Emma stayed firm. Once you see what someone truly thinks of you, you cant unsee it.
Blythe, meanwhile, moved on to other victims she needed winners, not losers dumped by their wives in front of the whole office. James was left with the mortgage (which he refinanced to pay her share), his soggy spaghetti, and the harsh lesson that a single message in a chat can cost a whole life.
Emma bought a new silk robe, emerald like her dress, and wore it proudly, knowing no one would ever call her a pale moth again.
