She Got The Birkin I Got His Company Chapter 1

My tenth-anniversary gift from my husband was a tube of Chanel hand cream.

Our son, in a fit of mischief, scrambled onto my vanity while I wasn’t looking. He squeezed it with all his might, and the expensive cream pooled on the floor like a tragic, pearlescent tear.

It was the thought that counted, I told myself. So that same day, I drove to the nearest Nordstrom to buy a replacement.

The saleswoman gave me a pitying once-over, her eyes scanning my practical jeans and worn-out flats. She shook her head.

“Ma’am, we don’t sell this hand cream individually.”

Her voice was soft, but the words were sharp. “Your friend must not have explained when they gave it to you. The tube you’re holding… it’s a complimentary gift. It comes with the purchase of our newest Birkin bag.”

* * *

The proof of my husband’s betrayal walked right up to my table the very next day.

The girl—his assistant—had a triumphant look in her eyes.

“You should leave Ethan,” she said, without any preamble. “You’re not on his level anymore.”

I took a slow sip of my coffee. “Ambition is a good thing in a young woman. But does your boss know you’re running around playing this little game?”

Brooke hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Of course, he knows. He’d be with me already if you weren’t dragging him down, refusing to let go.”

She leaned forward, her voice a venomous whisper. “I’m younger. I’m prettier. I understand him better than you do. Why shouldn’t it be me at his side?”

I looked at her face, perfectly sculpted with makeup, her almond eyes wide with a practiced fury. She was beautiful. There was no denying it.

But so was I, ten years ago.

“We all get old,” I said, the words feeling tired in my mouth. “Do you really think you’ll stay young forever?”

“I’ve been with Ethan for fifteen years. We’ve been married for ten. Our lives, our assets, everything is tied together. What, exactly, are you bringing to the table?”

Brooke, sitting across from me, suddenly smiled. A slow, cruel curve of her lips.

“Is that so? How’s the hand cream, by the way?”

My breath caught. My eyes darted involuntarily to the new, caramel-colored handbag sitting beside her on the bench.

“I bet you don’t even know that’s called a Birkin,” she continued, her voice dripping with condescension. “The latest model. I mentioned I wanted it, and Ethan bought it for me the next day.”

“It came with a little gift set of hand creams. I picked out the scent I hated the most and told him to give it to whoever. I guess that was you.”

She casually lifted a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, revealing a diamond-encrusted watch on her slender wrist. The design was painfully familiar.

My stomach dropped.

I had that exact watch saved in my online shopping cart. I’d look at it every night before bed, a secret little indulgence. But with our son Liam’s private school tuition rivaling a mortgage, I could never justify the expense. It was a waste of money, I’d told myself.

A few weeks ago, Ethan had presented it to me. Our ten-year anniversary. I’d refused, pushing the box back into his hands. “Liam’s expenses are only going to go up. I barely go anywhere fancy. Please, just return it.”

He’d thought for a moment, then pulled the tube of hand cream from his suit pocket and gave it to me instead.

I thought he’d returned the watch. I never imagined he’d just given it to someone else.

I stared at Brooke’s perfectly curled eyelashes, my own reflection hazy in the cafe window behind her. I could see the fine lines around my eyes, the exhaustion etched into my face.

She was right. Men hit their prime in their thirties, turning into silver foxes. And me? What did I have to show for the last decade, besides a child and a growing sense of irrelevance?