My Husband Gifted His Mistress Luxury Watches

The conference room erupted with cheers as I closed my laptop. Thirty million dollars. The largest deal in FosterTech's history, and I'd just secured it with a signature and a handshake over video call.

"To Victoria!" My senior project manager, Liam, raised his coffee mug in a mock toast. "The woman who just saved all our jobs for another year!"

The team gathered around, clinking mugs and water bottles against mine. Their faces glowed with relief and admiration. This deal meant bonuses, stability, and growth—everything we'd been working toward for months.

"You're a machine, Vic," Sarah from marketing whispered, squeezing my shoulder. "I don't know how you do it."

I smiled, but my eyes drifted to my phone, checking for messages. Nothing from Ethan yet. My husband had promised something special when I closed this deal—a reward he'd been hinting at for weeks. Something to acknowledge what this meant for the company. For us.

The celebration continued around me, but my mind wandered to Ethan's promises. Last night, he'd kissed my forehead and whispered, "Just wait until tomorrow. You'll see how much I appreciate everything you do."

After seven years of marriage, I still felt that flutter of anticipation when he promised to surprise me. Despite the late nights, the canceled dinners, and his growing distance, I clung to these moments—proof that he still saw me.

The conference room door swung open, and conversations hushed. Ethan stood in the doorway, his tailored suit impeccable as always. My heart quickened as his eyes found mine.

"I hear congratulations are in order," he said, voice carrying across the now-silent room. He didn't smile.

I rose from my chair, suddenly conscious of everyone watching us. "We did it," I said, gesturing to the team. "Thirty million, just like you wanted."

Ethan crossed the room with measured steps. The team parted for him like water around a stone. When he reached me, he took my hand in his, and for a moment, I thought he might kiss me—a rare public display of affection.

Instead, he pulled a black marker from his pocket.

"I promised you something special," he said, uncapping the marker. "Hold out your wrist."

Confusion rippled through me, but I extended my arm. The room had gone completely silent. Ethan bent over my wrist and began to draw on my skin. The marker's chemical smell filled my nostrils as he concentrated, tongue between his teeth like a child coloring.

When he finished, he stepped back with a flourish. "There. Your very own watch."

I stared down at my wrist. A crude cartoon watch drawn in permanent marker stared back at me—wobbly numbers, stick hands pointing to what I assumed was three o'clock, and a childish strap.

Someone coughed. The silence stretched painfully.

"It's... creative," I managed, forcing a smile that felt like cracking glass.

Ethan beamed, apparently oblivious to my humiliation. "I thought you'd appreciate something personal rather than just another boring luxury watch. Anyone can buy those."

A smattering of awkward applause broke out. I maintained my smile, even as something cold settled in my chest.

"Well," Ethan clapped his hands together, "don't let me interrupt. Back to work, everyone. That thirty million won't multiply itself."

He left without kissing me, without a proper congratulations. The door closed behind him with a soft click that somehow felt louder than a slam.

The celebration resumed, but with diminished energy. I excused myself shortly after, retreating to my office where I scrubbed at the marker until my skin was raw. It barely faded.

That night, I soaked in the bathtub, trying to wash away both the marker and the lingering embarrassment. Ethan was working late—again. The house felt emptier than usual.

Wrapped in my robe, I scrolled through Instagram mindlessly, seeking distraction. A new story appeared from Amber Sullivan, Ethan's assistant. I rarely checked her posts, but something compelled me to tap on her profile picture.

The image loaded, and my world stopped.

There, gleaming against Amber's delicate wrist, was a Patek Philippe watch. The limited-edition model Ethan had once pointed out in a magazine. "Only fifty made," he'd said. "The ultimate status symbol."

Her caption read simply: "Thanks, boss! #blessed #dreamscometrue"

My thumb trembled as I checked the timestamp. Posted today—the same day Ethan had drawn a childish doodle on my wrist.

I zoomed in on the watch. One hundred thousand dollars of precision engineering and luxury, nestled against Amber's skin. The skin on my own wrist still bore faint black marks from Ethan's marker.

Something crystallized inside me—hard, sharp, and irreversible.