The Husband They Threw Away Runs This Town Now

Erick woke before dawn. The storage room was a tool, a cover. He needed to stay invisible. The Laurent family made that easy.

The camera system was Michel’s work—already compromised through Erick’s backdoor access. He didn't smile. Michel had about three more days of usefulness left.

Breakfast at the Laurent estate wasn’t a family meal—it was a hostile business meeting. 

Leroy, the cold patriarch in charge of the family, sat at the head of the marble table reading the newspaper.

Beside him, Evelyn played with her silverware. She shifted her fork a millimeter to the left, then pulled it back, obsessing over a placement that was already perfect.

Michel, the eldest son, tapped lazily on his phone screen like it was a toy he couldn't quite comprehend. No wonder his father had practically begged his wife to return and salvage the family's public image.

Dominique sat by the window, putting as much physical distance between herself and Erick as the long table allowed.

Erick pulled out his usual chair—the one the staff secretly dubbed "the reject seat"—and sat down. 

Michel looked up from his phone. “Oh. You’re awake.”

Erick didn’t react. Taunting him was Michel’s favorite pastime.

"Or maybe you've upgraded to the pantry now?" Michel added, chuckling. "That seems more your speed."

Evelyn gave a fake, maternal scold. "Now, Michel, be nice. Erick is still... family." She spat the word family like it was a lingering disease.

Leroy didn’t even look up from his paper. "Let him eat. If he shows up to the evening gala looking starved, the press will have a field day."

Dominique finally spoke, still not looking at him. "He is just handling logistics. Nobody will notice him at the gala anyway."

Across the table, Remi—Leroy’s daughter from a past affair—watched Erick a second too long. When their eyes met, she gave him a small, guilty smile. Remi was the only one in this mansion who tried to treat him like a real person.

"I need to head out early," Erick said, standing up before touching his plate.

Michel tsked loudly. "Clean the table first. The maids are entirely tied up with gala prep."

Remi snapped before Erick could respond. "Leave him alone, Michel."

Evelyn rolled her eyes dramatically. "Oh, don't act noble, Remi. If Erick weren't around to absorb your father's temper, he wouldn't have let you anywhere near the corporate office." She turned her sharp gaze to Erick. "At least make yourself useful and clear the table."

Erick gave a single, submissive nod. "Sure."

He glanced at Dominique. She was still sipping her coffee, staring out the window. 

When he entered the kitchen carrying the heavy tray, the low whispers of the staff cut through the clatter of porcelain.

“Husband or servant? I honestly can’t tell the difference anymore,” a young maid giggled to a coworker.

"What a pity," the other whispered back, eyeing his frame. "A man with a body like that and a model's face, and he chooses to live as a parasite off his wife.”

“Have you forgotten your duties and your positions?” House Manager Mrs. Hollis snapped, stepping into the room. “Back to work. Instantly.”

The gossip died out as the servants scrambled back to their stations.

In the quiet, Erick felt his secret phone vibrating against his thigh. He slipped it out, his thumb sweeping across the encrypted screen. A single line of text blinked into view before self-destructing:

[THEY KNOW QUADE IS STILL ALIVE.]

Erick pocketed the device without a single muscle in his face twitching.

He wasn’t Erick. He was Quade. And today, like every other day for five years, he still played the useless husband. Until the trap was ready to close.

Mrs. Hollis cleared her throat behind him. "Mr. Erick, Miss Dominique is waiting for you in the courtyard. She's late for her final dress fitting on Fifth Avenue. Do not keep her waiting."

“Thank you, Mrs. Hollis.” He smiled at her.

***

The sedan crawled slowly through Manhattan's suffocating traffic. Dominique sat in the passenger seat, her phone pressed tightly to her ear.

“Martin, you’re too funny,” Dominique giggled. 

She barely looked at him, glancing over as if she had only just remembered her husband was the one driving. Then she turned back to her call, her tone dropping into a lower, more intimate register.

"Don't say that... You're embarrassing me."

She laughed softly. Erick hadn't heard that version of her voice in years. Now, he was relegated to a glorified caretaker.

Yet she still touched him sometimes when she was anxious. Whenever she was stressed, her hand would rest on the back of his neck, her fingers brushing briefly against the bare skin beneath his collar.

A moment later, Dominique clicked her phone shut.

"Who were you talking to?" he asked quietly, keeping his eyes on the road.

Dominique opened her eyes slowly. "Martin. He bought me a gift—a diamond necklace worth three million dollars." A prideful smile returned to her lips. "At least he knows what I like. Unlike some people."

Erick’s grip tightened on the leather steering wheel until his knuckles turned white.

A few minutes later, he brought the car to a sudden, sharp halt in front of the luxury boutique on Fifth Avenue.

"We are here."

Dominique disappeared into the private dressing room with her stylist, leaving Erick to wait in the VIP men's lounge.

Across the lounge, Martin Clarke lounged lazily on a leather sofa. Resting on his lap was a small red velvet jewelry box—the exact companion to the empty shipping carton Erick had spotted in the car earlier.

“Erick.” Martin smiled, a patronizing glint in his eyes. “I didn’t think chauffeurs were invited to these things.”