Beg On Your Knees: Erasing My CEO Husband

I stared at the glowing screen of my phone, my thumb hovering over the red button. "Hey Julian," I said to the voicemail beep, forcing my voice to remain soft and understanding. "I know you're swamped in New York right now. The merger must be brutal tonight. Don't worry about calling me back. Get some sleep. I love you."

I ended the call. My husband, Julian Vance, worked entirely too hard. He needed rest, not a needy wife demanding his attention at midnight.

I slid the iPad across our plush duvet. His shared calendar flashed on the screen: *NY - Midnight strategy session.* Suddenly, a notification popped up in the top right corner. Slack.

He hadn't logged out.

I tapped the icon. Because I had personally set up his firm's network last year, my admin privileges kept his backend data fully visible. I didn't even need his password. His handsome profile picture smiled back at me. Below it, a tiny green dot indicated he was currently active. Next to that dot sat a single, damning line of text: *Local Time: 6:00 AM (CET).*

Central European Time.

I stared at the three letters, my blood running cold. New York was EST.

"You're not in Manhattan, are you, Julian?" I whispered to the empty, cavernous room.

My thumb tapped furiously into his account settings. The IP address pinned him squarely in France.

A strange sound tore from my throat. It wasn't a sob. It was a laugh. It sounded hollow, scraping violently against the walls of our pristine bedroom. He was using my endless understanding as a blindfold, treating me like a fool. I grabbed my phone and immediately dialed my sister.

"Clara? It's two in the morning," Sarah mumbled groggily through the speaker.

"Julian is in Paris."

"What? No, he's in New York. You literally just told me he was exhausted."

"He lied." I pushed off the bed and marched toward the bathroom. "His Slack is logged in. The IP address says Paris."

"Maybe the app is glitching."

"Time zones don't glitch, Sarah."

"Are you sure? Maybe he's using a VPN to access a European server?"

"Why would a domestic real estate merger require a French IP?" I asked, my voice dropping to a dead, flat monotone.

"I don't know, tech stuff?"

"I'm the one who handles his tech stuff." I swiped out of Slack and opened another app. "Hold on. I'm checking our shared Uber account."

"Clara, stop," Sarah pleaded. "You're making yourself crazy."

"Got it," I said. "He just finished a ride."

"Where?"

"Charles de Gaulle Airport to the Four Seasons Hotel George V."

"Oh my god," Sarah whispered. "Are you sure?"

"The receipt is right here. 120 Euros."

I turned and walked into his massive walk-in closet.

"What are you doing now?" Sarah asked, panic rising in her voice.

"I packed his silver suitcase yesterday," I said coldly. "I'm checking something." I opened the 'Find My' app on my phone. Months ago, I had slipped an AirTag deep beneath the lining of that suitcase. Julian lost his luggage constantly, and I was always the one to clean up his messes.

"You track him?"

"I track his bags," I replied.

The screen loaded. A green dot appeared on the map of Paris. It locked right over the George V.

"He's there," I confirmed.

"What are you going to do?"

"I'll call you back."

I hung up without another word. I walked down the curved staircase to the kitchen. On the marble island sat a bottle of exorbitantly expensive Cabernet. Our anniversary wine. I had planned to open it when he got back tomorrow to celebrate us. Instead, I grabbed the neck of the bottle, yanked the cork out with the opener, and tipped it over the stainless steel sink. Dark crimson liquid splashed violently against the metal. It drained away in seconds, just like my five years of blind devotion.

I picked up my phone again and dialed my exclusive concierge service.

"Platinum Desk, this is Marcus. How can I assist you tonight, Mrs. Vance?"

"I need a first-class ticket to Paris. The next available flight out of LAX."

"Right away. Business or pleasure?"

"Neither."

"Understood. Do you need accommodations?"

"Yes. The Four Seasons George V."

Keys tapped rapidly on his end. "We can secure a junior suite."

"I don't want a suite," I interrupted sharply. "I need a specific room. Use my Marriott points if you have to transfer them, I don't care. I need the room directly across from 412."

"That's a highly unusual request, ma'am. I cannot guarantee specific room numbers."

"Marcus, I've been a Platinum member for six years. Call their front desk. Tell them I will pay triple the nightly rate in points if they move whoever is in 411."

"Please hold."

Silence stretched over the line. I gripped the edge of the marble island so hard my knuckles turned white.

"Mrs. Vance?" Marcus returned. "The room is yours."

"Thank you."

Fourteen hours later, the crisp Parisian morning air chilled my skin as I stepped out of a cab.

"Bonjour, Madame," the driver said as I handed him cash. "Enjoy your stay."

"I doubt I will," I replied flatly. I walked straight into the gilded lobby of the George V, my posture rigid.

"Bonjour, Madame. Checking in?" the front desk clerk asked with a polite smile.

"Clara Whitmore," I said, intentionally using my maiden name for the reservation. "You have a room for me. Fourth floor."

"Ah, yes. Room 411." He typed on his keyboard. "We had to shuffle some reservations for you."

"I appreciate it."

"Will your husband be joining you? We have Mr. Vance registered in 412."

"He's already here," I said coldly. "We prefer separate rooms."

"Very well. Here is your keycard." He handed me a heavy plastic rectangle. "Do you need help with your bags?"

"I don't have any."

I turned and headed directly for the elevators. The brass doors slid shut, sealing me inside. I stared at my own reflection in the mirrored walls. My eyes looked exhausted, but my jaw was set with a titanium tightness.

The elevator chimed cheerfully. I stepped out onto the fourth floor. The hallway smelled of fresh lilies and expensive wax. My shoes sank into the plush carpet, muffling my footsteps as I walked down the long, opulent corridor.

I pulled out my phone. The AirTag app pulsed.

0.1 miles. 50 feet. 10 feet.

I stopped dead outside the dark mahogany door of Room 412.

I tapped the screen. *Play Sound.*

A faint, muffled chirping echoed from the other side of the heavy wood.

"Excuse me, Madame," a housekeeper said gently, rolling a cart past me. "Are you alright?"

"I'm perfect," I said, my eyes burning holes into the door.

"Do you need fresh towels?"

"No. Have a good day."

She moved along, sensing the lethal energy radiating from me.

I stood alone in the quiet corridor. The chirping stopped. I looked at the keycard in my hand. Room 411 was right behind me. A safe space. A place to hide. I had drained my points just to stand in this exact spot. The AirTag showed him one wall away.

What exactly was waiting for me behind that wood? How unbearable would the scene be?

I shoved the keycard deep into my pocket. I raised my fist and knocked three sharp times.

"Just a minute!" a voice called from inside.

It wasn't Julian's voice. It belonged to a woman.

The lock tumbled. The brass handle turned. The door cracked open.