The Capitol Wife's Revenge

The Capitol Wife's Revenge

Shi Liu

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For five years, I played the silent partner to Matthew's rising political career, sacrificing my MFA, my novel, and my own dreams for his ambition. Our grand Georgetown apartment, that rich smell of my slow-cooked short ribs-it used to be the scent of home. Then came the text: "Completely buried. Not going to make it home." An hour later, scrolling in my dark apartment, I saw the Instagram post. Matthew, arm casually draped behind his young, beaming mentee, Gabrielle, at a dive bar. "Grateful to have a mentor who gets that the real work happens after hours." My stomach churned, but something cold settled in my chest. This wasn't just a missed anniversary; it was a public declaration of where I ranked. When he called, sharp with annoyance about the single word I'd commented-"Impressive"-accusing me of overthinking, a chilling clarity descended. I saw the years of excuses, the skipped family funerals, the career-first mentality that always left me second. Was I crazy? Was I really "overthinking" how my own dreams were dismissed as a hobby while his were a calling? Was I just the "homebody," the one he occasionally "fit in"? But that night, as if a spell had broken, I didn't cry. I didn't confront. I walked past the cold coffee machine, looked at the cheap, afterthought anniversary gift, and realized: the quiet woman who put Matthew first was gone. And it was time to write a new ending, for myself.

Introduction

For five years, I played the silent partner to Matthew's rising political career, sacrificing my MFA, my novel, and my own dreams for his ambition.

Our grand Georgetown apartment, that rich smell of my slow-cooked short ribs-it used to be the scent of home.

Then came the text: "Completely buried. Not going to make it home."

An hour later, scrolling in my dark apartment, I saw the Instagram post.

Matthew, arm casually draped behind his young, beaming mentee, Gabrielle, at a dive bar.

"Grateful to have a mentor who gets that the real work happens after hours."

My stomach churned, but something cold settled in my chest.

This wasn't just a missed anniversary; it was a public declaration of where I ranked.

When he called, sharp with annoyance about the single word I'd commented-"Impressive"-accusing me of overthinking, a chilling clarity descended.

I saw the years of excuses, the skipped family funerals, the career-first mentality that always left me second.

Was I crazy?

Was I really "overthinking" how my own dreams were dismissed as a hobby while his were a calling?

Was I just the "homebody," the one he occasionally "fit in"?

But that night, as if a spell had broken, I didn't cry.

I didn't confront.

I walked past the cold coffee machine, looked at the cheap, afterthought anniversary gift, and realized: the quiet woman who put Matthew first was gone.

And it was time to write a new ending, for myself.

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"Mr. Phantom, are you sure you want to enter the national street art competition?" the voice on the phone asked, echoing in my lavish penthouse. I, Ethan Hayes, the true Phantom, stared at my reflection, the city lights blurring like the last ten years of my life. I was back.\n\nThe memories hit me-the alley, the sickening crunch of bone, the mangled hands. Olivia, my wife, her eyes cold, furious, saying, "This competition can only be won by 'Phantom'! Anyone who threatens him will be eliminated, and that includes you!" She thought Mark Jensen, my ambitious assistant, was Phantom, my savior. She bought him this penthouse. My art saved her from suicide, but she mistook my pain for jealousy, then had my hands broken when I tried to reclaim my identity.\n\nAt the charity auction, she introduced Mark as Phantom, spending millions on his "art." When my own painting, "Three Days"-a raw depiction of my torture during kidnapping-came up, I desperately bid for it. But she outbid me, buying it for Mark, whispering, "This painting belongs to a true artist. It belongs with Mark."\n\nLater, she orchestrated a horrifying re-enactment of my kidnapping, breaking my hands again for Mark's "inspiration." My own wife. She then forced me to sign a contract in the hospital, giving up my identity as Phantom and agreeing to a divorce, all to save my hands. I signed, but not before telling her, "After this, we are nothing. You are not my wife. I am not your husband. We will be strangers."\n\nI was worthless to her, an embarrassing attachment. But I was Ethan Hayes, the true Phantom, and I wouldn't be destroyed again. I left, starting fresh in a new city, fueled by a promise: the world would see the real Phantom's work, and my revenge would be swift and quiet.

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