“She’s not a project for you to fix, Ross! She’s a human being you broke!” Wren takes a step forward, pushing into his space, her face inches from his. “Go back to Arthur. Return to whatever associate’s name is currently on your tongue. But you are not touching her. You aren’t even breathing the same air.”
He may have his Tabitha, but I have my Wren.
I’m shivering now, not because I’m cold, but because I can see the tremors in Ross’s hands. He looks like he’s on the verge of a total neurological collapse.
“Margot!” he shouts, his voice cracking, the sound echoing through the small space. “Margot, please! Give me five minutes! Let me explain. I’ll sign the papers. I’ll leave the city. But just five minutes!”
“Shut up!” Wren hisses. “I will call them, Ross. I’m dialing right now.” She reaches for her back pocket, where her phone is tucked into her leggings.
Standing as a ruin of a man, he stares into the darkness of the living room. He looks like he’s waiting for the building to fall on him. He looks like he’s hoping it does.
I’ve never seen my husband so desperate.
Despite the rage, despite the name Tabitha still echoing in my ears, I feel a sickening pull in my chest.
It’s not love. Not anymore.
It’s the same feeling you get when you see a beautiful skyscraper being brought down by controlled explosives. You know it has to happen. You know the structure was flawed. But you still can’t help but mourn the silhouette.
So I step out of the shadows.
Every muscle in my legs protests the weight of my own body, a deep, bone-weary exhaustion that has settled into the marrow. I’m still wrapped in Wren’s microfiber robe, the white fabric a stark contrast to the dim, beige hallway. I feel small, exposed, a soft thing in a house of hard edges.
The floorboards don’t even creak, but the shift in the air is enough.
Wren doesn’t turn around, but her shoulders stiffen. She’s an intuitive fighter; she knows I’ve broken cover. Ross, however, reacts like I’ve stepped through a portal from another dimension.
The moment his eyes lock onto mine, something in him snaps. The tension in his shoulders, that rigid, defensive stance he’s been holding, simply gives way. He sags against the doorframe, his chest heaving under that ruined white shirt. The bloodshot, glassy look in his eyes clears for a second, replaced by a desperate, hungry relief.
It’s a look that used to make me feel like the center of the universe. Now, it makes me feel like a target.
“Margot,” he breathes. My name is a rasp, a prayer that’s been chewed up and spat out.
Wren stays planted firmly between us. “She doesn’t want to hear it, Ross. Look at her. Look at what you’ve done. You’ve turned her into a zombie in two days. You’ve done enough damage. Take your suits and excuses, and find a bridge to design somewhere else.”
Ross’s hands are twitching. I watch them clench and unclench at his sides.
Meanwhile, I move closer, closing the distance until I’m standing a foot behind Wren. I can smell him now. He smells like the office, stale toner and burnt espresso, but underneath that is the sour, metallic scent of a man who has forgotten how to care for his own skin. He smells like neglect. Body odor.
“Margot, please,” he says, ignoring Wren entirely. I am the only thing in his line of sight. “I didn’t think… I didn’t know if you’d stay here. I went to your mother’s first. I went to the gallery. I’ve been driving in circles, trying to give you some space.”
Ha. As if that’s the reason he missed my calls. For my own protect. “Space.”
“You shouldn’t have come here,” I say. My voice is steadier than I feel. It sounds like someone else speaking, a woman who hasn’t spent the day crying. “You should have stayed at your drafting table. That’s where you live, isn’t it? Maybe you canDoordash lamb directly to your desk. Cut me out of the equation completely.”
“I quit,” he says.
Wren lets out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Oh, brilliant. The Emperor’s golden boy threw a tantrum. Is that supposed to fix the fact that you brought another woman’s name into your wife’s bed? Is unemployment supposed to make you faithful?”
“I resigned,” Ross repeats, his voice growing stronger, a new, jagged edge of anger cutting through the desperation. He glances at Wren, then back to me. “I walked out, leaving the Dubai project on the desk. I left Tabitha in the office, with Arthur, the partnership, and the whole goddamn firm.”
A cold ripple of shocks shoots through me.
Ross Calder doesn’t resign.
Ross Calder doesn’t walk away from the biggest project of his career. Architecture isn’t his job; it’s his skeleton. Without it, I assumed he’d collapse into a pile of wrinkled suits.
“You did what?” I whisper.
