#wnbba

corporate wife!caitlin who runs boardrooms like kindgoms and dynastys, little senior associates hanging on her every word, signs million-dollar contracts without blinking, is always reading some behavioral economics book or preparing a market brief for her mornings. she graduated top of her class at Wharton, effortless summa cum laude achieved. her assistant is classically conditioned at the click of her heels in the corridor, coffee already waiting as soon as Caitlin strolls in, hands in her pockets despite the unprofessionalism of it because she’s reached the level where she can be insolent like that — and she exudes authority like the expensive perfume coating her Hermès paris blazer. “L-Lovely morning, Ms. Clark,” he stammers out. She hums, offhanded, a barely-there nod of acknowledgment, before sinking into her chair and sorting through a forest of contracts, reports, and mail as if she’s pruning her own power, trimming the chaos into order seamless. you’re the quiet trophy wife who watches her conquer the skyline, champagne glass in hand, head all ditzy with the luxury afforded by her hard work. on her lunch breaks, she picks you up and you guys sit at rooftop bars drinking pale rosé she doesn’t actually sip, because performance is part of the pleasure. she leaves massive tips for no reason, food untouched, and drives a black Aston Martin most days — but when she’s in one of those moods, she’ll take the matte white Porsche, another purposeless indulgence of her liking just cause. she doesn’t need to drive at all, actually — her driver waits on standby whenever she’s at work — but she likes steering herself through traffic, answering hands‑free Bluetooth calls, her voice commanding as traders, analysts, associates, and partners line up like triage, her words the most critical event of their day. with the way she talks on the phone, you’d never assume she’s the same woman who, seconds later, is telling Siri in between calls, “hey Siri, tell "wifey" to wear something distracting. and, uh...pink.” she takes you shopping for some dumb little thing you saw on TikTok that you want. whenever Cait brings you back home from your little mid-day dates, she’s already mid‑call with some senior exec, voice rich with dominion, biting into business talk that somehow sounds sexier when it rolls off her tongue. “If compliance can’t get that form signed, tell them I’ll sign their resignation instead,” she warns a guy, car rolling smooth against the pavement, engine humming with that quiet luxury, car white leather interior with scent of her perfume stitched into every surface — eyes flicking toward you for just a second. her voice is sharp, stentorian, every word a clean incision: “you had three weeks and I’m still hearing excuses? figure it the hell out, johnson.” yet her hand never leaves your thigh, thumb tracing lazy circles like muscle memory as the other steadies the wheel — composed, terrifyingly calm even as she commands an empire. and there you are, watching her talk to someone who’d kill to please her, sitting right beside her as the only person who ever actually has. she ends the call mid-sentence of the guy with a click of the steering‑wheel button, finally looking over at you, all steel softening into something sweet & apologetic. “you doing okay, babe? hate to get caught up around you, m’sorry,” she apologizes earnest, leaning over with a press of her lips to your forehead, the scent of vetiver and coffee clinging to her skin. you fucking love your bitchy corporate wife with a soft spot for you and only you. and that bratty little dog you dragged from your fourth‑floor walk‑up to the big glass fortress she put you in the day after you got engaged — the kind of property with floor‑to‑ceiling windows, a pool that blurs into the skyline, and a view so high up you forget the noise of everyone trying to catch up to you guys below. marble stairs, wide‑spaced chrome kitchen gleaming like a showroom, and a big vintage piano neither of you play but is there because likes to see you lean against when she works late from home.