The Maxwell Secret

My three-year marriage to Ethan Vanderbilt, New York's golden heir, was a carefully managed illusion of high-society perfection.

Publicly, we were the power couple; privately, our Park Avenue apartment echoed with cold silence.

I had clung to the belief that, unlike other men in our rarefied circle, Ethan was at least impeccably discreet.

That fragile peace shattered when I found an AmEx receipt from a Hamptons hotel I'd never visited.

A quick call confirmed "Mr. and Mrs. Vanderbilt" had enjoyed a romantic weekend there.

I, however, was not that Mrs. Vanderbilt.

The betrayal felt like a cold knife twisting in my gut.

Days later, the situation escalated horrifically when his college-aged mistress, Chloe, stormed my home with her screaming friends.

She publicly denounced me as an "old, barren hag," claiming Ethan was leaving me for her, right before they physically assaulted me.

When Ethan finally arrived, he didn't shield me; he shielded *her*, his little plaything.

He actually told me Chloe was "just a kid" and that I, being "older," should "know better" than to cause a scene.

To add insult to profound injury, he later casually mentioned he wouldn't even care if I sought my own "diversions."

His blatant dismissal of my assault, my dignity, his casual cruelty, was more painful than the affair itself.

He'd give me permission to cheat after allowing his mistress to attack me in my own home?

Our entire marriage felt like a sick, twisted joke.

That night, a text message illuminated my phone's screen: "Thinking of you. - N."

It was Noah, the handsome, kind-eyed stranger from my own impulsive night of rebellion just after I first discovered Ethan's betrayal.

Ethan's careless, cold words – "I wouldn't even care" – echoed in the sudden quiet of my mind.

A reckless, defiant spark ignited deep within my bruised soul.

"My place. One hour," I typed back, my fingers trembling slightly.

My silent suffering, my role as the perfect, accommodating Vanderbilt wife, was officially over.

1

My marriage to Ethan Vanderbilt had always been a carefully curated masterpiece of New York high society. Three years of public smiles and private silences.

He was handsome, powerful, the heir to Vanderbilt Industrial. I'd believed him impeccably discreet. Unlike other men in our circle, Ethan wasn't known for sordid affairs. Cold, yes, but clean.

That illusion shattered on a Tuesday. A misplaced AmEx receipt from a Hamptons hotel, not a business ledger. A quick call to the hotel confirmed "Mr. and Mrs. Vanderbilt" had enjoyed a weekend stay.

I wasn't Mrs. Vanderbilt that weekend. I was in our Park Avenue apartment, nursing a migraine.

I didn't confront him. Instead, I found myself at Bemelmans Bar. The dim lights and soft piano were a balm to my shredded composure. Three martinis later, a young man with kind eyes and an easy smile sat down. Noah.

The next morning, I woke in my own king-sized bed. Sunlight streamed through the silk curtains. Noah was beside me, his dark hair tousled against my Frette linens.

I sat up. My head throbbed less from alcohol and more from the sheer audacity of my actions. I reached for my phone on the nightstand.

Noah stirred, propping himself on an elbow. "Morning, beautiful. Or should I say, Mrs. Vanderbilt?" His voice was low, a little husky, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Get out," I said, my voice flat. I opened my Venmo app.

He raised an eyebrow. "Just like that?"

I typed in a thousand dollars. "Consider it a thank you for your time."

His smirk faded. He watched the notification pop up on his own phone, then slid out of bed without another word, gathering his clothes.

I stayed in the bathroom until I heard the front door click shut. The reflection in the mirror showed a woman I barely recognized – Olivia Prescott, market director of Prescott Media, a Vanderbilt wife, and now... this.

Our marriage was a business arrangement, a merger of two dynasties. But the betrayal still cut, sharp and deep.

Later that day, I was at the Prescott Media headquarters. My father, Richard Prescott, ran the company. I needed to discuss the Q4 marketing budget.

As I approached his office, I heard his booming laugh, then a woman's softer, giggling reply. Not my mother, of course. She'd left him years ago, tired of his endless parade of mistresses.

It seemed some things never changed. It made me wonder if Ethan was just following a script written by men like my father. I felt a wave of disgust.

I bought a new set of sheets on my way home. I tossed the old ones, along with any lingering scent of Noah, into the building's commercial incinerator chute. I needed to erase the night, at least physically.

Ethan arrived home just as I was putting away the new linens. His key in the lock made me jump.

"You're back early," I said, trying to keep my voice even.

He nodded, loosening his tie. He looked tired, but his eyes, those cool blue Vanderbilt eyes, scanned me, then the room. "Productive trip."

He handed me a familiar orange Hermès box. A Birkin. His standard peace offering after a "long business trip."

The leather felt smooth, expensive. Meaningless. "Thank you, Ethan."

I saw it then, a faint, reddish mark just below his ear, peeking from his collar. A kiss. Not mine.

"How was Boston?" I asked, my voice carefully neutral as I placed the bag on the dresser.

"Productive," he repeated, his answer deliberately vague. "Meetings ran late." He didn't lie outright, just omitted the part where the meetings were likely with a blonde from NYU in the Hamptons.

My smile felt brittle. He knew I knew. Or suspected. He just didn't care enough to hide it better.

That night, we lay side-by-side in the vast expanse of our bed, a chasm of unspoken truths between us. His breathing was even, deep. Mine was shallow.

I saw the hickey again, darker now. I felt a perverse sense of satisfaction. We were even. He had his college student; I'd had my one-night stand. A bitter equilibrium.

Ethan was gone before I woke the next morning. No note. Just the indentation of his head on the pillow.

I was downstairs, about to have breakfast prepared by Maria, our housekeeper, when the commotion started. Loud voices, a crash.

Then, they burst into the foyer. A group of young women, led by a striking blonde. Chloe Miller.

She pointed a perfectly manicured finger at me. "There she is! The bitch who's trying to steal my man!"

I recognized her instantly from the candid paparazzi shots I'd seen online, the ones Ethan thought I hadn't noticed. His Hamptons companion.

The sheer audacity of it. The mistress, storming the wife's home, accusing me.