Married to my Ex-wife's boss

The First Action

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Sandra cracked a smile in her dream, her heart beat normalizing and her tongue relaxing.

It was the first time in years. Such a therapeutic feeling had eluded her for years.

She relaxed her head more on the pillow, her silk nightdress, together with the comfy cotton bedsheets made the sleep sweeter.

She could remain that way forever. But time was up. It was work-day. No laziness would succeed in keeping her pressed to the bed.

However, she maintained that smile till she woke up.

The sun was already up before her. So its brightness was allowed to slap her hard on the face and erase the lazy sleep that still clouded her lashes.

She breathed in, savouring the cold morning air, whisking with the brightness of the sun. She didn't mind.

She had gotten what she needed. The file had been destroyed. The source of Fiona's condescension had been removed successfully.

Fiona would hold no claim to her destiny anymore. She would be placed where she belonged; without having a chance to put up a fight.

She let the smile return fully. She had been worried sick, wondering how that evidence could be erased.

There was no evidence of any other killing. There was none whatsoever.

Now she had the chance to start afresh. She had the chance to bury Roseline and take back her place.

No! She won't let her do with her as she pleased. She won't let her have him; and give him a high position.

He was meant to be wrapped round her fingers and no one else's. She yawned to release the tension that had already gathered in her chest.

Her joy wasn't supposed to shift that quick. It was to be savoured, long and hard. She was to at the least, give herself a chance to enjoy the fruit of her labors.

She might not have been the one to plant the explosion, but she surely did contribute greatly to its success; sitting on that chair, with insults raining heavily on her.

She shuddered a little at the embarrassment she must have felt, and then let it fly away like a wasp.

But it could not be helped.

Roseline was annoying her way more than she was helpful. She had not even imagined that in her wildest dream.

Maybe she had in the wildest dream but she wouldn't have thought it to materialize

What did she mean by getting married to her man?

The fury returned two times its previous intensity, burning through her chest down to her ribs.

A hiccup started. She thought she would die. How could she bear such pain? It hit her chest so hard that it was difficult to breathe. The hiccup did not stop. She passed her hands romantically to her chest, aiming to still the pain.

It was hard enough to have been advised wrongly by a betrayer and another to actually have a husband snatched by your own boss.

It didn't have anything to do with Roseline's eyes that seemed to change color anytime she appeared nor did it have to do with her frequently dyed her.

In totality, it had nothing to do with her beauty but everything to do with her money.

She couldn't just let go of the fact that, despite her struggle and small room in the world of fame, Roseline was still capable of buying her as a pet if she wanted to.

Not even if she wanted to, she could do it even if she had no need for a pet.

Nevertheless, her dressing skills were far better than the money she got. She could swear, David liked her dressing sense more than Roseline's.

Of course, Roseline was higher in rank. It was an indisputable fact. But she was more knowledgeable in the field of dressing and also of elimination.

No one would have to dare her more than twice before tasting a spoon of her medicine.

A picture crossed her mind. It was of David. She struggled to find remorse in her, but couldn't.

She was of the belief that men were meant to be wrapped around the finger. None should be given a chance to think for themselves.

That was one mistake her mother had made. The mistake she had sworn never to repeat.

She let the thoughts simmer in her chest before she decided to move herself to the sitting room to hear whatever the TV had to offer; hopefully, the most sought for news.

Her hair was in disarray, a perfect mass, just the perfect one for a crown. Her playful nature appeared in her thoughts.

Imagine if the mass of hair was shaped in that perfect way to remind her that she was the real queen, the very one behind the great scenes.

The appraisal sat warmly in her brain, her accomplishments adding extra weight to the praise.

It warmed her heart just as much as an external comment.

She really was unstoppable; strong and courageous. No one was going to take it away—she would not let anyone do that to her.

She tried not to dwell on the fact of it already slipping out of her grasp.

No, it was going to only have positive sides. There was no need for pessimism.

She sighed as she got to the sitting room. The stilettos she had won all day long, laid right at the centre, where the red carpet was.

She had no memory of it slipping out of her foot. Maybe she had been slightly drunk? She couldn't bear to think that hard

She sighed again; moved to pick it up. But the doorbell stopped her. She expected no one. Or was it the bomb planter? Or…

Who could it be? She picked the stilettos; held it in one hand, looked at her silver nightgown with some iota of satisfaction and walked to the door.

Her chest still ached. She couldn't pinpoint why. It could've been emotional, but the pain laboured her breathing.

So she suspected something physical.

She coughed and briefly contemplated looking through the peephole but decided against it.

Nothing could possibly go wrong. She opened the door; that was the last thing she remembered.