My Wife's New Favorite

The alcohol in my stomach burned like a ball of fire, making my temples throb. When my phone vibrated in my pocket for the third time, I finally pulled away from the drinking table, my fingertips sticky with the smell of booze. "I'm at the parking lot entrance, the white car." Gillian Brady's voice came through the receiver—cold, nothing like her usual warmth. I rubbed my heavy head and stumbled toward the parking lot. A breeze blew, the booze hit me again, and the streetlights blurred into a mess before my eyes. The white car was easy to spot, but when I opened the door, I froze right there. A young man sat in the front passenger seat, barely in his early twenties, wearing a sharp, well-fitted white shirt, with bold eyebrows and eyes. When he saw me get in, he lifted his eyelids slightly, the corner of his mouth curling into a half-smile. "Who are you?" I frowned and asked, my eyes landing on Gillian Brady in the driver's seat. Gillian was adjusting the navigation without looking up: "This is Casper Jackson, my new assistant." Casper reached out his hand confidently, his fingers long and clean: "Hello, Mr. Stephenson, I'm Casper Jackson." I didn't take his hand. The air seemed to carry a faint scent of his cologne mixed with the perfume Gillian always wore — a strangely sharp blend. "Assistant?" I repeated myself, the irritation in my voice pretty clear, "That's my seat, so how did your assistant end up sitting there?" Casper pulled his hand back, shrugged with an innocent expression: "Mr. Stephenson, sorry, I get really carsick. Sitting in the front seat is more comfortable, and Gillian was just trying to be considerate." I felt anger flare up instantly and turned to Gillian: "If I'm not mistaken, the front passenger seat has always been mine." Only then did Gillian turn around, her face showing clear impatience: "Owen, what are you making a fuss about? Casper does get carsick — what if he pukes in the back?" I was stunned. After five years of marriage, Gillian has never used this tone with me. No matter how late I got home before, she'd always warm some soup for me. If I frowned, she'd nervously ask if I was feeling okay. But now, just because of some assistant she just met, she actually said to me, "What are you making a fuss about?" Casper was standing nearby with this half-smirk, and the challenge in his eyes was practically spilling over. "I'm making a fuss?" I laughed bitterly and pointed at Casper, "Gillian, he's your assistant, not your ancestor!" "Owen!" Gillian raised her voice, "Can you be a little more mature?" "Casper is the capable assistant I hired. The company's been busy with projects lately, so don't let this little thing mess with our work." Work? I don't think he's here to work at all. Casper spoke up just in time, breaking the silence, but it felt like pouring gasoline on the fire: "Mr. Stephenson, please don't be angry. This is all my fault." "Maybe I should just sit in the back. Even if it's a hassle if I get sick, at least it won't affect your relationship with Gillian." He was about to stand up, but Gillian held his arm: "No need, just stay seated." The car started and smoothly drove out of the parking lot. I sat in the back seat, staring at the backs of the two in front, feeling a chill run through me. Casper seemed pretty chatty, talking with Gillian about work stuff, from project planning to team management, like they'd known each other forever. Halfway through, he suddenly changed the subject, his eyes dropping down to Gillian's legs: "Gillian, those black stockings you're wearing today look really nice; they make your legs look slim and straight." My heart sank. Gillian was wearing a knee-length business skirt with black stockings today—her usual work outfit. But an assistant using such a flippant tone to comment on their boss's outfit? That's just not right. Gillian Brady's cheeks flushed slightly as she shot him an annoyed look. "Don't talk nonsense." That playful tone wasn't how a boss talks to an assistant—it sounded more like a couple teasing each other. "I'm just telling the truth." Casper Jackson smiled and added a pointed comment. "Way more tempting than the nude stockings you wore to that party last time." That party? How come I didn't know about that? Last time, Gillian said the company had a social event, but I couldn't go with her because I had to travel out of town for a project. Turns out that day, she was with this "assistant."