Suddenly, the door behind her creaked.
She would slip into a rented ballgown, apply a slightly bolder lipstick than her husband had ever seen, and infiltrate high-society luncheons hosted by the very firms her husband’s company was trying to outmaneuver. She carried no weapon. Her tools were a hidden voice recorder sewn into her bra strap and an unshakable ability to look harmless while listening to everything. Manami the Housewife-s Secret Job