Good Wives Finish Last: Revenge of the Billionaire's Ex Wife

"And that's how you get the petals to curl just right," I said, twisting the piping bag in a slow, practiced motion until the frosting bloomed into a delicate pink rose. I held the cupcake up to the camera, wearing the same practiced smile I used every single morning. "Love and patience, darlings. Every recipe is better when you have both."

Pink hearts started flooding the livestream almost instantly.

You're glowing today, Saint!

I wish I had your life.

You always look so happy.

I kept the smile plastered on my face as I reached for the next cupcake.

If happiness could actually be bought, maybe I would've found it by now.

The truth didn't look anything like the pretty, framed kitchen behind me. The truth looked like the 4:00 AM alarm that dragged me out of bed, the thick layers of concealer under my eyes, and the double shot of espresso sitting cold by the mixer because I'd forgotten to drink it. It looked like pretending my marriage was still a thing while strangers praised me for having the perfect family.

The camera didn't show any of that.

"Mommy!"

Ares burst into the room in his Spider-Man pajamas and mismatched socks, nearly slamming into the kitchen island.

"Hudson's dad bought him Japanese wagyu for breakfast!" He leaned against the marble counter, looking up at me expectantly. "Can I have that tomorrow?"

I gave a soft, airy laugh for the audience. "We talked about this, remember? Wagyu is a special treat. I can make you something even better."

His shoulders slumped. "You always say that."

Before I could even think of an answer, he wandered off toward the living room, already distracted.

The comments went wild.

Kids are so honest.

He's adorable.

Saint is such a patient mother.

Patient.

People loved using that word for me. Sometimes I wondered if "patient" was just a polite way of saying I'd forgotten how to complain.

"Mom!"

Aria hurried in next, shoving her tablet toward my face. "Look! Aunt Iris finally got her Kelly bag."

I blinked.

"It only took her three days," she said, sounding genuinely offended. "I've been waiting two whole months."

I stared at my nine-year-old daughter, trying to figure out how we'd ended up having a conversation about Hermès waiting lists before she'd even finished elementary school.

"Sweetheart," I said carefully, "those bags are incredibly expensive."

"I know."

"And they aren't really something children need."

She frowned, like I'd just said something completely ridiculous. "Then why does Aunt Iris have one?"

Because she was twenty-four, single, spoiled rotten, and somehow still everyone's favorite.

Instead of saying that, I smiled for the viewers. "Adults and children have different priorities."

"You always have an excuse," she sighed dramatically and marched away.

The chat filled with laughing emojis. This family is hilarious.

I spread another layer of frosting. Steady hands. Even breathing. Don't let anyone see the cracks.

"Erina."

My mother-in-law never had to raise her voice to get my attention.

Cassandra Costas stepped into the kitchen looking as flawless as ever in a cream suit that probably cost more than my first apartment. Mikimoto pearls sat against her throat, and the smell of Chanel No. 5 trailed behind her.

Her eyes swept over the kitchen before landing on me. "You're kneeling."

I looked down. I had crouched down to grab a tray from the bottom cabinet. "It's easier this way."

"A Costas wife should never kneel."

She wasn't shouting. She didn't need to.

I stood up immediately, ignoring the ache in my knees. "You're right."

She looked at the ring light. "I still don't understand why you insist on broadcasting our home every morning."

"It's my work."

"No." Her expression didn't budge. "Your work is this family."

The silence stretched between us. The viewers probably thought she was joking; a few comments even mentioned how elegant she looked. Nobody noticed how hard I was gripping the piping bag.

Cassandra adjusted an earring and left as gracefully as she'd arrived, leaving nothing behind but the scent of her perfume.

A minute later, Daphne wandered in wearing tennis clothes, though she never actually played tennis. She didn't even look up from her phone.

"The pool is too cold."

"I'll ask someone to fix the temperature."

"You said that yesterday."

"I forgot."

"You always forget." She finally looked at me. "You really are unreliable sometimes, Rina."

I forced another smile. I hated that nickname. Zayden only called me Rina when he wanted something, and everyone else just copied him because it was easier than remembering what I actually liked.

I was turning back toward the camera when another voice drifted in.

"Good morning, Sister."

Scarlett.

She looked effortlessly beautiful in the way magazines try and fail to copy. Her blonde hair fell over one shoulder, and she was wearing an oversized white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

My eyes stopped there. That shirt was unmistakable. It was Zayden's. I'd bought it for his birthday last year.

Scarlett walked straight to the cooling rack, grabbed a warm bread roll, and tore off a piece. She chewed it thoughtfully, a teasing smile on her lips.

"They taste... a little desperate today."

The livestream exploded. Your sister is so funny! Sibling goals!

I laughed because thousands of people expected me to. "I'll take that as constructive criticism."

She winked at the camera and wandered toward the dining room, still wearing my husband's shirt like it was hers.

I couldn't stop looking at it. Maybe there was an explanation. Maybe she'd spilled coffee on herself. Maybe Zayden had lent it to her because the laundry room was closer than the guest room.

Maybe. The word tasted bitter.

I reached for the ring light. "That's all for today's baking session."

My voice stayed smooth. Professional. Steady.

"Thank you for spending your morning with me. Remember to love fiercely, and I'll see you tomorrow."

The stream ended.

The kitchen went silent, and my smile vanished before the screen even went black. For a few seconds, I just stood there, staring at the blank display. The mixer hummed quietly as it finished its cycle. My coffee was cold. Buttercream was stuck to my fingers.

From down the hallway, I heard Scarlett laughing. It sounded light, comfortable, and completely at home.

"I like staying here," she said. Then another voice-too low for me to recognize-replied.

"This house feels warm," Scarlett continued. "It reminds me of our old home."

Our old home. The one destroyed by the fire.

She had been seven when she lost everything. I remembered carrying her through nightmares, brushing her hair, teaching her how to braid it because she insisted she was a big girl. I remembered the scraped knees and the bedtime stories.

For years, I believed I had become the family she needed. Somewhere along the way, she stopped needing me.

The kids adored her. Probably because she never corrected them. She laughed when they spilled juice; she let them stay up too late. She listened to every little story like it was the most important thing in the world.

I was the one who reminded them to do their homework, brush their teeth, and clean up after themselves. Parents rarely become the favorite. They become the expectation.

I turned toward the sink. Dirty dishes were waiting exactly where I'd left them before the stream. The twins were at the table, whispering and giggling.

It should have been a comforting sound. Instead, all I could think about was the shirt Scarlett was wearing.

I washed a plate slowly, warm soapy water over porcelain. Everything looked normal, but beneath the curated smiles and "perfect" family, something had already broken.

I just hadn't admitted it until now.