The Perfect Husband's Secret novel Chapter 4

Chapter 4 

A week later. 

After spending the morning at Christie’s fall preview, I decided to surprise Nathan with macarons from Ladurée. The front desk security guard – Mike, I think – gave me his usual warm smile as I signed in. “Want me to let Mr. Pierce know you’re here, Mrs. Pierce?” I shook my head with a conspiratorial wink. “Let’s make it a surprise.” 

When I reached the top floor, I tapped on the heavy oak door of his corner office. Nathan’s boardroom voice cut through: “I specifically said no interruptions.” 

“Even for your wife?” 

Beep. The security lock clicked open. 

The floor–to–ceiling windows were dimmed to their darkest setting, turning the spectacular Manhattan view into a muted backdrop. Nathan sat behind his massive Restoration Hardware desk, his expression softening when he saw me. 

“This is unexpected.” 

I gave him a playful pout. “Brought you something sweet. Though you weren’t very sweet just now.” 

“Ten–minute break,” he spoke into his MacBook before pulling out his AirPod Pro. He massaged his temples, looking exhausted. “Sorry, angel. Quarterly board meeting. Didn’t realize it was you.” 

“Still live?” I whispered. 

“Mhm. Just muted myself.” 

That smile I fell in love with spread across his face. “But I never pass up treats from Mrs. 

Pierce.” 

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Chapter 4 

With his webcam still running, I stayed by the visitor chairs. “Well then, let me pamper my 

overworked CEO.” 

I opened the signature mint–green box and lifted a rose raspberry macaron to his lips. 

He leaned forward with that boyish grin I adored, but suddenly tensed, a strangled sound catching in his throat. 

“Nathan?” I held the macaron mid–air, concern creeping in. 

He blinked hard, took the macaron, and after a moment spoke in a strained voice: “Just fatigue. These back–to–back meetings…” 

“I should 

1. go. 

Let you 

catch your breath before you dive back in.” 

His lips pressed together apologetically, voice slightly raspy. “Text me next time – I’ll block off my afternoon.” 

As I headed out, I glanced back. Nathan was reclining in his Herman Miller, head tilted back, the filtered sunlight casting shadows across his Tom Ford suit as his chest rose and 

fell. 

By the private elevator bank, something felt off. I turned back. 

Just past the executive assistants‘ area, I saw his door open. 

A figure slipped out. 

When she glanced around furtively, I saw her face clearly. 

Claire Morrison. 

Still in her Ann Taylor basics and minimal Sephora makeup, still radiating that carefully cultivated mousy demeanor. 

The only thing out of place was her MAC Russian Red lipstick – subtly smeared at the 

corners. 

11. Coerot 

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