“Post-nups, gentlemen,” Beaumont had said, swirling his drink. “Update your arrangements. Remove those pesky clauses our younger, more naive selves agreed to. Lock it down before your wives get any ideas.”
He was right, of course. If Snow ever did the unforgivable and tried to leave me, she shouldn’t be rewarded for it.
But she doesn’t know. She can’t know.
This is just one of Snow’s dramatic gestures. Those hippie parents of hers never taught her proper restraint. All that free-spirited nonsense made her too emotional. “Nicolette, send some flowers to my wife. Something spectacular. Roses. Two dozen red roses.”
“Of course. What would you like the card to say?”
I think for a moment. “Write ‘Je t’aime, mon coeur.’” French always worked on her before.
Nicolette nods and makes a note. “I’ll take care of it immediately.”
“And cancel my reservation at Le Bernardin tonight. I need to focus on my wife. Book us a table somewhere impressive tomorrow night instead. Somewhere people will see us. The best table they have. Tell them it’s for a very special occasion.” I’m already feeling better, more in control. “Oh, and call my travel agent. I want to surprise Snow with a long weekend in Paris.”
I watch Nicolette make notes, her dark head bent over her tablet, completely focused. Shame she’s being so difficult about my invitations. A woman like that — smart, gorgeous, efficient — would understand the arrangement. Discreet. Mutually beneficial. Not like Snow, who would never understand that a man in my position needs variety. But Nicolette keeps those walls up. Professional to a fault.
My thoughts shift back to my wife. An impromptu getaway is exactly what Snow needs. She’s been cooped up in that house too long, overthinking things. A romantic gesture, a changeof scenery, some time alone together — she’ll remember why she fell in love with me in the first place. She’s always been impressed by grand gestures. Once she sees I’m willing to make an effort, to prioritize our marriage, she’ll drop this divorce nonsense immediately.
“Shall I clear your calendar for the weekend?” Nicolette asks.
“Absolutely. This is priority number one.” I lean back in my chair, already feeling more confident. “You know, Nicolette, I appreciate your discretion in all this. I don’t want to hear of any office gossip about this.”
“Of course, Mr. Darlington. Your personal matters are completely confidential.”
She turns to leave, but I call her back. “Nicolette? One more thing. You’ve been an exceptional assistant. Truly exceptional. When this little… situation… with my wife is resolved, I’d like to take you to dinner. To properly thank you for your loyalty.”
For just a moment, something flickers across her face. But then the professional mask is back in place. “That’s very kind of you, sir. I’ll get started on those arrangements right away.”
After she leaves, I sit back and smile. Poor Snow. She has no idea what she’s trying to walk away from. But it won’t come to that. I know my wife. Underneath all that supposed independence, she’s still the same girl who was dazzled by expensive dinners and weekend trips to the Hamptons. A few romantic gestures, a heartfelt apology, maybe a new piece of jewelry — a tennis bracelet from Tiffany, perhaps — and she’ll be back in my arms where she belongs.
I reach for my phone, but my eyes catch on the wedding photo. It’s upright again, Snow’s face turned toward me, that perfect smile almost accusatory in the afternoon light. I distinctly remember turning it face down when I texted Krystal this morning.
I must have knocked it back into place when I was going through the divorce papers. I turn it face down again with more force than necessary. No need for that judgmental stare while I handle my affairs.
I pick up my phone again and scroll through my contacts until I find Ashleigh’s number. She’s discreet, undemanding, and grateful for whatever time and attention I choose to give. I should probably cool things off with her for a few weeks, just until Snow and I get back on track. It’s a small sacrifice to make for the sake of my marriage.
Can’t see you for a while. Wife needs attention.
Her response comes back almost immediately:Again? I’m tired of being your backup plan. Your wife doesn’t appreciate you like I do.
My jaw tightens. The entitlement is astounding. I type back quickly, my fingers hard on the screen.
Know your place. This arrangement works because you understand the terms. Don’t make me regret this.
I silence my phone and toss it on the desk. The audacity. As if she has any right to comment on my marriage.
Everything is under control. Snow will come to her senses once she realizes what she’s throwing away. She loves me, she’s always loved me. This is just a cry for attention, a desperate attempt to get me to notice her again.
And it worked. I’m noticing her now. I’m prioritizing our marriage, planning romantic surprises, and clearing my calendar for her. She’ll see that I’m the same man she fell in love with, the man who can give her everything she’s ever wanted.
By next week, we’ll be laughing about this whole silly episode. By next month, she’ll be back to planning charity galas and hosting dinner parties, exactly where she belongs.
A soft knock at the door. Nicolette again, her expression neutral. “Mr. Darlington? Your nine o’clock is still waiting. Shall I send them in?”
I glance at my Rolex. Forty-five minutes. Damn Snow and her dramatics, disrupting my entire morning. I straighten my tie, smooth my hair, and brush off another piece of glitter. My eyes land on those ridiculous balloons still tied to my chair, bobbing smugly.
“Get rid of those balloons. Now.”
