MacGyver Imagines

"Perfectly Wrong"

A/N: Hello all! And Happy New Year!!! 🎉🎉🎉 I hope this year will be everything you hope for, and I'm praying for good things for all of us. I'm so grateful for all of you and all the support you've shown me this past year!

With that said, this story came from a request from AlyssaMGrace20 who asked me to use the song "Perfectly Wrong" by Shawn Mendes. Thanks for the request, and I'm sorry it took so long! Let me know what you guys think! ⭐️❤️
Rating: Contains Mature Content
(⚠️Warning: Some mentions of abuse)

***

You stare at the massive ring on your finger, absentmindedly twirling it while you sip on an insanely-overpriced and, honestly, quite dry glass of champagne - trying to drown out the voices of the snobby and obnoxiously-rich people surrounding you.

"Mrs. Holloway? Mrs. Holloway?" A squeaky voice pierces through your daze, snapping you out of it.

You're greeted by a well-dressed woman with a slim face and perfectly styled hair.

"Oh, Mrs. Winston. It's so nice to see you again." You plaster on your best smile while you shake her hand. "How are your grandchildren doing?"

"They're quite well, dear. Thank you for asking."

"Is Mr. Winston with you?"

"Yes. He's speaking with your husband. You know, business talk."

Just then, you see the two of them making their way over to the two of you.

Your husband, Brad Holloway, CEO of Holloway Enterprises, slides his hand around your waist. Then, he whispers in a low voice in a very unapproving tone, "Too busy day-dreaming again?"

"Of course not," you whisper back through gritted teeth.

He drops the issue and turns to your guests, "Mrs. Winston, Charles was just telling me such a fascinating story about his property lines. He says he's buying another 60 acres of property around his estate."

"Wow. Congratulations," you chime in.

The conversation rolls on, and you internally roll your eyes at the incessant sound of snooty small-talk.

Just when I think these things couldn't get any worse, you think to yourself.

Finally, just when you think you're about to pull out every last hair on your head, it's finally time to leave this so-called "party."

You spend the ride home staring out the window of your husband's Lincoln and counting the stars in the LA sky; it happens to be an unusually clear night tonight.

As your chauffeur drives in silence, your husband, hardly even acknowledging you, types away at his phone. He seems to never put that thing down lately.

When you finally get home and you climb the double staircase of your LA mansion, you pull off your heels and finally peel off your uncomfortable dress, getting ready for bed.

"I fly out at 9 AM, so I'll be leaving early," Brad finally speaks up.

"Okay," you reply simply.

"Hey," As you turn down the bed, the satin sheets brushing your skin, he catches your arm, maybe a little too hard. "This trip could mean big things for us. With any luck, I could be expanding this business to the East coast. If you keep acting like you did tonight, you could ruin all of it. The least you can do is try a little harder to act interested at work events. You're my wife, and that's your job."

You pause, chewing your cheek in pure ire. But, you relent, "I know. I'm sorry. I was just tired."

You climb into bed, pulling the covers up around you. You watch your husband as he finally puts down his phone after he sends, certainly, yet another email and gets undressed for bed. Without another word, he turns off the side lamp, climbs into bed, and turns away from you.