If She Is The Lady... Then Who Am I?

§01

The video had no sound.

It didn't need any.

Isadora Barrett sat alone in the cavernous living room, the only light coming from the tablet resting on the marble coffee table.

On the screen, a surveillance feed played on a silent loop.

A Porsche dealership.

Her husband, Alaric Stryker, was handing a black credit card to a salesman.

The card was hers.

Standing beside him, a young woman with long, dark hair beamed, her hand linked possessively through his arm.

Tessa Ellison.

An analyst from his company.

The cold light of the screen reflected in Isadora's eyes, two chips of ice.

She had suspected for three weeks.

It wasn’t a sudden revelation, a dramatic confrontation.

It was a quiet, cold splinter of doubt that had lodged itself in her heart.

The catalyst had been laughably small.

A cufflink.

It happened at the weekly Sunday BBQ at the Barrett residence, a tradition Alaric insisted upon as a performance of family and loyalty.

Isadora played the part of the perfect hostess, her smile never faltering.

As she handed Alaric a platter of grilled steaks, her eyes caught the glint on his wrist.

It wasn't the refined platinum from Valeriano Bespoke, the pair she had commissioned in Naples for their tenth anniversary.

It was a cheap, gaudy thing.

A plastic flower, encased in cheap metal.

One of his lieutenants, laughing, had clapped Alaric on the shoulder.

"The Boss is a true family man, but it’s our little sister-in-law who’s got the real queenly demeanor!"

Isadora’s smile didn’t waver, but a glacier formed in her chest.

She’d tilted her head, her voice light, playful.

"Oh? Does that mean there's a less regal one I should know about?"

A sudden, thick silence fell over the group.

The men exchanged panicked glances.

Alaric, ever the master of control, had simply laughed, pulling her into a one-armed hug.

"Don't listen to these idiots. In what world could there possibly be another woman worthy of being my wife?"

He had looked straight into her eyes, his own filled with a performance of unwavering devotion.

She had smiled back.

But the splinter of doubt was now firmly lodged.

§02

Later that night, long after the laughter and cigar smoke had faded, Isadora walked into their master closet.

It was a cavern of curated perfection, a testament to a shared life of immense wealth.

She walked to his dresser, her heart a cold, heavy stone in her chest.

She picked up the velvet box from Valeriano Bespoke.

Her hands were steady.

She lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled in the dark velvet, were the platinum cufflinks she had given him.

He had swapped them out.

He had worn the cheap plastic flower for his guests, for his crew.

He had put on a performance.

Then he had come in here, taken them off, and carefully put her gift back in its box, as if nothing had happened.

The quiet, meticulous nature of the deception was more chilling than any open affair.

She closed the box.

The soft click echoed the sound of a door slamming shut deep inside her.

The doubt was no longer a splinter.

It was a gaping wound.

Back in the present, sitting in the darkened living room, the video on the tablet provided the final, brutal confirmation.

It was from her private investigator.

She had hired him the morning after the BBQ.

She watched the silent loop one last time.

Tessa Ellison, beaming, accepting the keys to a new Porsche 911 Carrera S, paid for with Isadora's money.

The wound was now fatal.

Isadora picked up her phone.

She swiped past Alaric's contact photo—a smiling, sun-kissed image from their last trip to the Maldives—and dialed another number.

It connected on the first ring.

§03

A calm, familiar voice answered. "Izzy?"

Isadora’s own voice was a whisper of ice.

"Christian, it's me."

"I was wondering when you'd call," Christian Barrett said, his voice devoid of surprise.

"Send me what you have."

Isadora tapped her tablet, forwarding the encrypted email from her investigator.

It contained three gigabytes of data.

Financial records, hotel receipts, travel itineraries that didn't match the ones he'd given her.

And the video.

"It's on its way," she confirmed.

"Consider it done," Christian replied. "I'm unlocking the family’s resources for you. Use them. I want him legally buried so deep no one will ever find the body."

"I never trusted him," Christian admitted, his voice hardening. "My team has been quietly compiling a contingency file on him for the past five years. I just never hoped we'd have to use it."

A cold comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. "Good," she said. "I want the best divorce lawyer you can find. And I want charges filed. Smuggling, money laundering... everything. I want Aegis Logistics dismantled."

"They're already on retainer," he said. "The evidence you just sent will accelerate everything. Stay put. I'll handle the initial moves."

The call ended.

Isadora stood up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the manicured lawns of their estate.

She saw not the home they had built, but a stage for a decade-long play.

And she was done performing.

The first act of her own play, however, was just beginning.

§04

The next morning, she dressed with purpose.

A tailored sheath dress, heels that clicked with authority on the marble floors, and the diamond wedding ring—a prop she still needed.

She drove herself to Grant Tower downtown, the gleaming headquarters of Aegis Logistics.

She didn't go to Alaric’s penthouse office.

She went to the fourteenth floor.

A few minutes after she messaged the front desk, a flustered Tessa Ellison scurried out of the bullpen.

She was dressed in a white, deceptively innocent-looking dress, her long hair falling over her shoulders.

Upon seeing Isadora, the color drained from her face.

She instinctively tried to hide her left hand behind her back.

But Isadora had already seen it.

The watch.

Last year, on Isadora’s birthday, she’d noticed a charge on their joint account from a Swiss jeweler.

Three million dollars for a custom timepiece, fifty thousand for a necklace.

The necklace had been presented to her over a candlelit dinner.

The watch, she now saw, was on Tessa Ellison’s wrist.

Isadora gave her a serene, unreadable smile.

"Miss Ellison. Your taste is remarkably similar to my husband's. Even the custom design of your watch... it's identical to a piece he commissioned last year."

Tessa began to tremble, her lips parting and closing like a fish out of water.

"Oh... is that so? I... I suppose great minds think alike."

She clutched at the fabric of her dress, her knuckles white.

"Please," Isadora said, her voice dropping, losing all its warmth. "Don't insult my intelligence."

"You're 'the songbird,' aren't you? The one the crew talks about."

Tessa flinched as if struck. "I... I don't know what you mean! Mr. Stryker... he fainted once, from his hypoglycemia. I just helped him. His friends... they were just joking."

She bowed her head, a perfect imitation of a wronged, pitiful victim.

It was almost convincing.

If Isadora hadn’t seen the social media posts.

Isadora let out a soft, humorless laugh.

She took a step closer, her presence utterly dominating the younger woman.

"A word of advice, Miss Ellison," Isadora said, her voice a silken threat.

"When you accept stolen goods, make sure you know the true value of what was stolen."

"And from whom."

Without another glance, Isadora turned and walked away, her heels echoing down the hallway, leaving Tessa Ellison shaking in her wake.

§05

The phone rang the moment she was back in her car.

Alaric.

His voice was tight with a poorly concealed panic.

"Isadora? What were you doing at the office?"

She started the engine, the purr of the Bentley a low growl.

"Just dropping off some papers for accounting," she lied smoothly. "Why? Is there something I shouldn't see?"

A pause.

He was recalibrating.

"Of course not, darling," he said, his voice shifting into its familiar, placating tone. "It's just... the office is a mess. I would have had it cleaned up if I knew you were coming."

"You've been so suspicious lately. You know there's nothing I would ever hide from you. My life is an open book."

Isadora’s fingers tightened on the leather steering wheel.

An open book written in invisible ink.

"I trust you," she said, the words tasting like ash. "But since you brought it up... that watch Miss Ellison was wearing. It's stunning."

He actually sounded relieved.

"Oh, that! I forgot to tell you. That was the day I had that hypoglycemia spell. She stayed with me at the clinic for hours, made sure I was okay. It was just a thank-you gift for her trouble."

Download the Novellia app, Search 【 667949 】reads the whole book.