Trophy Wife Strikes Back

Lingling entered their penthouse after a grueling day at work, rolling her shoulders as she unfastened her blazer. She had spent twelve hours closing a deal, four hours dealing with incompetent people, and two hours resisting the urge to fire half the board for wasting her time.

All she wanted was to kick off her heels, pour a glass of wine, and see her wife— her responsible, business-savvy, equal-partner wife — so they could discuss their day like normal adults.

Instead, she was met with...

Orm.

Lounging dramatically on the couch, in silk pajamas, hair in perfect waves, with a face mask on, satin robe draped over her shoulders, and a glass of imported wine elegantly balanced between her fingers.

Soft jazz played in the background. The dim lighting made their luxury penthouse look like a five-star spa retreat. The scent of lavender candles filled the air.

Lingling stopped in her tracks, blinking once. Twice.

Orm sighed—deeply, dramatically. She tilted her head, shifting on the couch as if simply existing was an exhausting task.

"Ugh," Orm groaned, rubbing her temples with the grace of a royal socialite in distress. "Being a wife is so tiring."

Lingling froze.

"...What?"

Orm took a delicate sip of her wine before exhaling another sigh. "You don't understand, Ling. Do you know how much effort it takes to look this good every day?" She gestured at herself, like she was a priceless work of art.

Lingling narrowed her eyes. "You spent the morning at the spa."

Orm hummed, tapping a perfectly manicured nail against her wine glass. "Exactly. So exhausting."

Lingling inhaled slowly, deeply, with all the patience of a woman questioning her life choices.

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Failed.

"...Where is my wife?"

Orm finally turned to look at her, smug as hell. "Right here, babe."

"That's not my wife."

Orm smirked, setting down her glass with the grace of someone who was now an untouchable socialite. "That's because your wife is now a trophy wife."

Lingling's eye twitched.

Oh. This was serious.

The worst part?

Orm looked way too comfortable in this role.

Lingling pointed a sharp finger at her. "You. Stay right there."

She turned and marched straight to their bedroom.

Orm, lazily adjusting her silk robe: "Ling?"

The bedroom door slammed shut.

Orm laughed to herself, sipping her wine.

This was fun.

Lingling locked herself in the bedroom.

She didn't even know why. She wasn't running. She was regrouping.

Regrouping from what exactly?

Her wife.

Her wife, who used to be a responsible, business-savvy café owner. Her wife, who used to complain about spreadsheets and coffee bean imports.

Her wife, who was now draped over their penthouse couch like an heiress awaiting a scandalous romance novel plotline.

Lingling sat on the edge of their bed, elbows on her knees, face in her hands.

"This isn't happening," she muttered to herself. "This isn't real."

A trophy wife.

A TROPHY WIFE.

Her wife—the same woman who once argued with her about business strategy—was now coasting through life like she was born into royalty.

Lingling inhaled deeply, then exhaled very, very slowly.

What was she supposed to do with this?

Was this a phase?

Was this forever?

Was she supposed to start funding spa retreats and designer shopping sprees for her wife now?

Lingling groaned, falling back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

She had money. That was never the issue. But was she prepared for the mental gymnastics of handling Peak Trophy Wife Orm?

No.

No, she was not.

Her phone buzzed.

She picked it up, seeing a message from Freen.

Freen: Did you see the latest post?

Lingling: What latest post?

Freen: Your wife just went viral. Again.

Lingling blinked.

That... couldn't be good.

She clicked the link.

The photo loaded.

And there was Orm.

In their penthouse.

The caption?

"POV: You marry rich and enter your Trophy Wife Era."

Lingling's soul left her body.

She threw her phone onto the bed and stormed out of the bedroom.

She was not doing this today.

Orm was smirking before Lingling even spoke.

"Ling, darling, did you need something?"

Lingling closed her eyes. Breathed in. Breathed out.

"We need to talk."

Orm, dramatically adjusting her silk robe: "Sounds serious."

Lingling, deadpan: "It is."

Orm patted the seat next to her.

"Come, love. Let's discuss it over imported wine."

Lingling was two seconds away from losing her mind.

Lingling did not sit down.

She stood over Orm, arms crossed, radiating CEO authority that would make even the most stubborn board members crumble.

Except this was Orm.

Who was not crumbling

Who was still sipping her mimosa, still lounging like an overpaid socialite.

Lingling pinched the bridge of her nose. "Orm."

Orm took another sip of her mimosa, tilting her head slightly. "Yes, darling?"

Darling?

DARLING?!

Lingling's eye twitched.

"We need to talk about this... phase."

Orm gasped, hand to chest, utterly scandalized. "Phase? Excuse me? This is not a phase. This is a lifestyle."

Lingling exhaled sharply, not having the patience for this. "Orm, you own a business. You literally run a café. You've built a whole life. And now you're—" she gestured wildly at Orm's silk robe and slippers, "—doing this? Posting thirst-trap 'I married rich' videos?"

Orm shrugged, unbothered. "I am simply embracing my reality."

Lingling blinked.

Embracing. Her. Reality.

"Reality?!"

Orm nodded solemnly, setting down her drink as if she were about to deliver the speech of the century.

"Lingling," she said, taking Ling's hands dramatically, "let's look at the facts."

Lingling should have known better than to let her hold her hands.

Orm squeezed them, gazing up at her with ridiculous, doe-eyed devotion.

"One: I married a CEO."

Lingling's eye twitched harder.

"Two: My wife is rich. Like, absurdly rich."

Lingling sighed through her nose.

"Three," Orm said, voice softer now, "I love you. And I fully support your business. But that does not change the fact that, in our dynamic, I am now the financially inferior one. Which means..."

She leaned closer, dead serious.

"I am a trophy wife."

Silence.

Lingling stared.

"...You're joking," she said, praying this was a joke.

Orm? Not joking.

"I'm simply stating facts."

Lingling took a step back. Held up a hand. "Let me get this straight."

She pointed at Orm. "You, Orm Setharatanapong, successful café owner, master's degree holder, business-savvy woman—"

Orm smirked.

Lingling continued, ignoring the smirk.

"—have fully accepted that you are now a trophy wife."

Orm nodded, fully at peace. "Yes."

Lingling rubbed her temples. "Orm, you come from a ridiculously wealthy family. You were born rich."

Orm shrugged, sipping her mimosa. "Yeah, but now I'm wife rich. It's different."

Lingling's eye twitched again. "You were always rich."

Orm, grinning: "But now I'm your rich wife."

Lingling groaned into her hands.

"I am not paying for a yacht."

Orm, thoughtfully: "...Not even a small one?"

Lingling gave her a look.

Orm laughed and pulled her into her lap, wrapping her arms around Lingling's waist.

"I'm teasing, baby," Orm murmured, pressing a kiss to her wife's collarbone. "But I am serious about loving this phase of our life."

Lingling grumbled, but she leaned into the embrace anyway.

Because, at the end of the day, this was Orm.

Her Orm.

Her chaotic, ridiculous, completely smitten wife.

And she loved her anyway.

Even if she might have to ban social media in their house for the sake of her sanity.

The night of the gala arrived and Lingling was on a mission.

She needed to prove a point.

No matter how much Orm insisted on her Trophy Wife Era™, Lingling refused to let her get away with it completely unchallenged.

So she dragged Orm—in all her smug, effortlessly beautiful glory—to the most prestigious business gala of the year.

Orm, of course, was having the time of her life.

Draped in a custom-made designer dress—one that perfectly accentuated her curves while still exuding class—she walked beside Lingling with her signature confident stride.

Lingling, meanwhile, looked undeniably sharp in her designer dress, her icy persona perfectly in place as they stepped into the venue.

They looked like the ultimate power couple.

And Orm was enjoying every second of it.

As they strolled through the grand entrance, Lingling adjusted her dress. Orm caught the movement and smirked.

Orm: "So, I'm arm candy now?"

Lingling, without missing a beat: "You always were."

Orm laughed, thoroughly enjoying her wife's rare displays of direct flattery.

Lingling didn't even realize how much she had just played into Orm's hands.

The moment they entered the main hall, Orm did what she did best.

She charmed.

Effortlessly.

Without even trying.

By the time they made it to their assigned table, Orm had already captivated an entire group of influential CEOs.

It started with polite introductions, but then—somehow—Orm had them laughing.

She wasn't just playing the role of "CEO's beautiful wife."

She was owning the room.

Her quick wit, her natural confidence, her undeniable charm—she had them hooked.

Lingling, who had dragged Orm here to prove a point, was now experiencing a completely different kind of crisis.

She sat, arms crossed, sipping her champagne, watching her wife work her magic.

And it was...

Infuriating.

And also, somehow, ridiculously attractive.

Orm was casually conversing with the kind of people that made even seasoned professionals nervous.

With a relaxed smile, she was effortlessly navigating through deep financial discussions, making insightful comments, all while throwing in just enough humor to keep them engaged.

Orm: "Oh, acquisitions? You know, my wife here is a genius when it comes to those. I just sit back and look pretty while she conquers the corporate world."

The CEOs laughed, clearly charmed.

Lingling almost choked on her drink.

One of the executives leaned in toward Lingling, eyes twinkling with amusement.

CEO: "Your wife is... quite something."

Lingling, still recovering: "You have no idea."

And just when Lingling thought the night couldn't get any more absurd, Orm did something truly audacious.

A particularly arrogant businessman had been trying to push his own agenda all night— throwing around condescending comments, dismissing younger executives, and making it very clear he considered himself the smartest person in the room.

And then, Orm struck.

With a charming smile and a perfectly-timed question, she led him straight into a verbal checkmate.

Orm, casually swirling her wine: "So, given your stance on market shifts, how do you reconcile that with your firm's declining quarterly performance?"

The man froze.

There was a beat of silence.

The surrounding CEOs turned to watch.

Lingling, now barely hiding her smirk, waited for the response.

The businessman stammered out a vague excuse, clearly caught off guard.

Orm, still smiling: "Ah, interesting. I was just curious, because from my understanding, if that strategy actually worked, your numbers would reflect it. But they don't."

It was a masterclass in corporate humiliation.

All without Orm ever raising her voice.

Lingling was in awe.

And, just a little, in love all over again.

As the gala wrapped up, Lingling and Orm stepped out onto the balcony for some air.

Lingling, arms crossed, finally turned to face her wife.

Lingling: "You planned that."

Orm, smirking: "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Lingling narrowed her eyes.

Orm: "Okay, fine. Maybe I wanted to remind you that just because I enjoy my Trophy Wife Era™ doesn't mean I can't still destroy a room when necessary."

Lingling sighed, but she was smiling.

Lingling: "You drive me insane."

Orm: "And yet..."

She reached out, pulling Lingling closer.

Orm: "You're still ridiculously in love with me."

Lingling, grudgingly softening: "...Annoyingly, yes."

Orm laughed, pressing a lingering kiss to Lingling's temple.

Orm: "That's what I thought."

And with that—Orm, the self-proclaimed trophy wife, had once again proven that she was still very much a force to be reckoned with.