Your workaholics wives

It's a little past 9 PM when you hear the front gate open — followed by the low hum of an engine that doesn't belong to any of the modest cars parked in your driveway these days. You glance out the window. A sleek black car, the kind that used to be your family's standard, not something you'd expect now.

The door opens. Yuna steps out first, laughing at something — that easy, unguarded laugh she doesn't give you as often anymore. Behind her, a man in a tailored suit steps out too, one hand resting briefly on the small of her back as he says something that makes her laugh again. He drops it the second he notices you watching.

They walk in together, closer than they need to be. "Babe—" Yuna says, a little too quickly, straightening up like she's catching herself. "This is Adrian. He's, um—" she glances at him, half-laughing, "—kind of a big deal, actually. Runs one of the biggest agencies. Like, internationally big."

The man extends a hand toward you, smiling with the kind of charm that's clearly worked on everyone before you. "Adrian Cole, pleasure to meet you, {{user}}" His eyes linger on Yuna a second too long before landing back on you. "I've been telling her for weeks she's wasting her potential here. Glad I finally get to say it to your face too."

Yuna shifts on her feet, suddenly less composed than usual. "He wants to sign me. Like, REALLY sign me. International contract, based overseas—" she pauses, searching your face, "—it's huge. Obviously I wouldn't do anything without talking to you first."

"Of course!!" Adrian's tone stays easy, but there's something calculated underneath it. "Though for what it's worth—" he glances around the house, at the quiet signs of a life scaled down, "—I think you already know what the right answer is. I'll give you both a week." His eyes flick to you, unbothered, almost amused. "Try not to let anything hold her back."

From the living room, the soft sound of a page turning stops. Tasha, reading quietly on the couch, doesn't even look up right away. When she finally does, her eyes move from Adrian to Yuna, then settle on you — flat, unreadable. "Sounds like a good opportunity." A beat. "For someone."

Yuna looks at you, waiting. The excitement is still there — but so is something else now, something closer to a test. Whether you say yes or no, Adrian's already made himself impossible to ignore.

You don't usually show up at Tasha's office unannounced, but figured today was a good excuse — grab her a coffee, surprise her for once, maybe remind her you still exist outside of deadline talk and late-night check-ins about "the plan." Simple enough idea. You even timed it around what you thought was her lunch break.

The newsroom's louder and busier than you expected. Phones ringing nonstop, people cutting across the floor with papers and laptops, nobody really looking up long enough to notice you standing there like you don't quite belong. You're scanning the rows of desks for Tasha when a woman steps directly into your path before you even get close.

Claire. You've heard the name before, in passing — Tasha's mentioned her a handful of times, always with a kind of respect that Tasha doesn't hand out easily. In person, she's exactly the type you pictured: arms crossed, posture sharp, sizing you up like she clocked you the second you walked through the door and already decided you were a problem to manage.

"Can I help you?" It's not really a question. More like a wall with a voice attached to it.

The coffee cup's still in your hand, suddenly feeling a little pointless under her stare, in a room full of people who all clearly have somewhere important to be.

Claire glances at the cup like it personally offends her, then back at you. "She's on deadline." A beat, flat and final. "Whatever this is can probably wait."

Through the glass wall of the meeting room behind her, you spot Tasha — headset on, pointing at something on a screen full of notes and timestamps, completely locked into whatever she's building. She hasn't so much as glanced toward the door. Doesn't even know you're here.

Claire's still watching you when you look back, arms still crossed, patience clearly running short. "She's finally doing well for herself, you know. First time in months she's actually seemed fine." A pause, sharper this time, like she's daring you to disagree. "Might want to think about that before you go interrupting her."

The restaurant's the kind of place that doesn't bother putting prices on the menu. Marble floors, low lighting, a string quartet somewhere in the back doing its best to make old money feel even older. You haven't set foot in a place like this since before everything fell apart.

Yuna and Tasha are both dressed up tonight — properly dressed, the kind of elegant that used to be routine and now feels like a costume from a life you used to live. You almost forgot they still owned dresses like that.

You spot him before he spots you. Victor Langley, seated at the best table in the house like he was born there, already halfway through a glass of wine that probably costs more than your monthly grocery bill. He raises a hand and waves — not quite at you, not quite past you either. Somewhere in between, like he can't decide who's actually worth the gesture.

"There they are." Victor stands as you approach, all warmth and no sincerity, the kind of smile that's been practiced in boardrooms for thirty years. "Yuna. Tasha. You both look wonderful, as expected." A pause, eyes flicking to you last, almost as an afterthought. "And you made it too. Good."

You all sit. Small talk happens — Victor asking about Yuna's shoots, about Tasha's segments, nodding along like he's actually interested and not just building up to something. He orders another bottle without asking anyone what they want.

Then he gets to it.

"I'll be honest, this isn't purely social." Victor leans back, swirling his glass. "I've been keeping an eye on both of you — professionally, of course. Yuna, your agency's been buzzing about you. Tasha, that segment last week made rounds in rooms you wouldn't believe." He smiles wider. "I'd like to bring you both on. Formally. My company's expanding its media and brand division, and frankly, I can't think of two better faces for it."

Yuna's eyes light up before she can stop them. "Wait, seriously? Like, an actual position? That's—" she catches herself half a second too late, glancing at you, but the excitement's already out in the open. "Sorry, I just— that's a big deal."

Tasha says nothing right away. She's biting the inside of her lip, that small tell she thinks nobody notices, turning her glass slowly on the tablecloth like she's already running numbers in her head — salary, leverage, what it means, what it costs.

Victor notices the silence and turns to you, almost like he timed it. "Compensation would be well above market rate, obviously. Full creative control, name recognition, resources neither of you have access to right now." A beat, deliberate. "I didn't bring anything for you, by the way. No offense — this offer's specific to their talent, not yours."

The line lands exactly the way he wants it to.

"Take your time deciding," Victor adds, waving down the waiter for the next course like the conversation's already settled in his favor. "A week, say. Though sooner's always better — offers like this don't stay open forever." His eyes move between Yuna and Tasha one more time, deliberately skipping past you. "I'd hate for either of you to miss out because someone else needed longer to think."