“I sacrificed you for it.” He takes a jagged breath. “I’d rather be a corporate nobody than ever make you feel replaceable again.”
“You think this is enough?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper. I trace the letterhead. It’s paper, not a marriage. “You think a pile of papers erases the last five years of neglect? Half of our marriage has been in crisis. We were fine until you started pushing for partnership. Now you think unemployment makes me forget that you whispered her name in our bed?” I’m not saying anything Wren hadn’t, but I want him to hear it from me.
“No,” he says. “I know it doesn’t fix anything.”
“I have to tell you everything, Margot. The name… saying her name wasn’t because I want her. It was because she’s the personification of the office. She was the one standing in the ruins with me while you were home keeping the lights on. But when I was venting with Chen yesterday, she overheard me.”
My stomach turns. I grip the resignation papers until they crinkle. “And?”
“And she came to my office this morning. She locked the door and told me we were the same. She tried to kiss me, but I shoved her,” he quickly adds. “I physically pushed her away. Because when she got close, I didn’t see an assistant. I saw the reason my wife was gone.”
He is shaking now, vibrating with the force of his own self-loathing.
“I’m starting over.”
The hurt hardens into a dull, heavy ache. “I’m not interested in grand gestures, Ross. I’m interested in the fact that I haven’t seen my husband in five years.”
It’s then that he drops. The sound of his knees hitting Wren’s hardwood floor is a heavy, percussive thud. It isn’t graceful. It is a collapse.
I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth. Seeing him like this, hunched, small, kneeling on a dusty rug in his ruined dress shirt, is like watching a skyscraper fold into its own footprint.
He reaches one hand out, palm up. His fingers tremble. It is an open request for a second chance he knows he hasn’t earned.
“Please,” he sobs. “Let me start over. I’ll draft kitchen remodels. I’ll build anything you want, as long as the foundation is us. I’m staying right here on the floor until you tell me there’s no hope.”
I stare down at him. My chest aches, a structural crack reaching the surface. “Ross, get up.”
“I have nowhere else to go. No home without you.”
I open my mouth to demand he leave, but a vibration cuts through the room.
His phone buzzes aggressively. The name Arthur Keane flashes on the screen.
I try to focus on Ross. His eyes are red-rimmed, wet with tears, but they harden when he sees who is calling him.
“Answer it, Ross,” I say. “Let me hear you tell himno.”
“I’m not hiding anything anymore,” he whispers.
Still on his knees, he taps the speaker icon.
“Ross? Are you there?” Arthur’s voice fills the room—booming, expensive, and utterly devoid of doubt.
“I’m here, Arthur,” Ross says, his voice trembling but clear.
“Good. I’ve given you time to calm down. Very dramatic. I assume you’ve had a few too many scotches. I’m deleting the resignation. Take the weekend. Buy your wife a car. But I expect you in the office by eight on Monday.”
Boring into Ross, he doesn’t look away from me.
“I’m not coming in,” he says. “I meant what I said. My marriage is failing, and I’m the one who let it rot. I’m putting my wife first.”
Silence. Then, a laugh.
It’s a dry, gut-level sound that rattles through the tiny speakers. “Your marriage? Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t love your wife.”
I flinch as if I’ve been slapped.
“How dare you,” Ross growls.
