Arthur’s voice drops into a cruel, fatherly tone. “You think love is a Sunday afternoon? Wives leave. You’re an architect. You love ego. Height. I assigned those projects to you because I knew your marriage was failing. I saw the way you stayed late. You didn’twantto go home. So stop crying about your little domestic drama and get back to work.”
Blood drains from my face.
“That’s a lie,” Ross whispers.
“Oh, grow up, Ross. You had nothing worth going home to. I gave you the world. And you thanked me for it! You took every project I threw at you with no complaints. Now, all of a sudden, it’s a problem?”
The humiliation is absolute. I’m not just a neglected wife. I’m a line item in a business strategy. Arthur Keane used my pain to build his skyline, and Ross let him.
Ross looks at me. He sees the shame burning on my face.
“Arthur,” Ross says, his voice cold. “You’re an asshole. If you call me again, I’m calling the police.”
He hangs up.
Ross is still on his knees. He looks at me, desperate, hoping that his defiance of Arthur meant something. Hoping I saw him choose me.
But I don’t feel chosen. Feeling exposed, I pull the robe tighter around me.
“Margot,” he starts, reaching for the hem of my robe. “I didn’t know. I swear, I didn’t know he was doing that.”
“He knew,” I say. My voice is dead. “The whole office knew. They watched me rot while you played king. They knew I was secondary before I did.”
I point to the door.
“Leave, Ross.”
“Margot, please, I quit my life for you,”
“LEAVE!” I scream.
The sound tears through the house. Wren steps to my side.
Ross looks at my face and sees the collapse. There is no more room for anything else. He has exposed me to the most brutal kind of public shame, and no amount of groveling can fix the fact that he let his boss manipulate our misery.
He stands up. His knees crack. He grabs his scuffed briefcase and walks to the door.
Likely wanting to say something else, he glances back, but I slam the door in his face.
As I remain standing in the living room, the smell of lavender and failure clings to the air. Ross Calder has no job. He has no partnership. And he has no wife.
He is an architect returning to an empty house.
Chapter 12
Ross
The rain comes sideways, stinging my face. I walk straight to my car at the curb.
When the engine starts, I drive away from my wife. Against all instinct, I don’t look back to see if she’s in the window. Instead, I drive until the city blurs into red smears.
With nowhere else to go, I return home.
I park crooked and let the engine die. Water drips from my hair.
Inside, her charger sits on the table, her sweater on the chair, wine still on the table. She left days ago, but I avoided staring too long. I also couldn’t bear the thought of cleaning, not because it’s her job, but because it would feel like I’m expecting her never to return. I touch the wine glass, tracing the sticky outline of her mouth.
The bedroom pulls me in. Sheets twisted, pillows caved. I sit on the edge. The mattress creaks. Her pillow smells of citrusshampoo. For a second, I pretend she’s in the shower. Then the pearls on the nightstand catch the light. She’s gone. Gone. Gone.
