I order coffee and set up my laptop while Claire sleeps. Check emails and make a list of tasks for when we get back to the office.
Normal. Professional. Nothing happened.
Except everything happened, and I can't stop thinking about her face when I called her an excellent assistant. The way the hope just... died.
I've been cruel to her before, but last night felt worse somehow. More personal.
I can pretend this night never happened. Except I don't want to pretend. I don't want to go to Aspen alone. I don't want her to go to Detroit to a mother who makes her feel small.
I want—What do I want?
I know exactly what I want. I just haven't had the courage to admit it.
Maybe it's time to stop being a coward.
3
Claire
Iwake up in the honeymoon suite on Christmas morning, and for about three seconds, I let myself pretend last night meant something.
Then I remember the 2 AM conversation.You're an excellent assistant.The way hope died in my chest, replaced by the familiar ache of wanting someone who will never see me as more than useful.
Merry Christmas to me.
Garth is already dressed in slacks and a button-down. His hair is damp, combed back, and he looks ready for a board meeting. On Christmas morning.
"Morning," he says without looking at me.
That's it. Not "how did you sleep?" Not "about last night."
My chest tightens.
"Morning," I manage.
He's on his phone, scrolling emails, his face set in that familiar cold mask. Like last night never happened. Like he didn't tell me about Lena, like I didn't almost cry talking about my dad.
Like we didn't almost have a moment.
I get out of bed and grab my clothes, locking myself in the bathroom. In the mirror, I look exactly how I feel—wrecked. My hair is a disaster, my eyes are puffy, and I have pillow creases on my face.
I shower quickly, trying not to cry. When I come out, there's room service with coffee and pastries. Garth's at the table by the window, laptop open.
Working. On Christmas morning.
"Coffee's there," he says without looking up. "Got you a latte."
Exactly how I like it. Perfect.
Of course it's perfect. He remembers everything. He just doesn't care.
I sit on the edge of the bed, as far from him as I can get in this stupid romantic room. The rose petals are still on the floor where I swept them off last night, red against white carpet like blood on snow.
Silence. Just his typing and, faintly, someone playing "O Holy Night" on the hotel piano downstairs.
More typing. More silence. More pretending everything's fine when nothing is fine.
I can't do this. I can't sit here and act normal when my chest feels like it's caving in.
