Domestic squabble.
How small those words sound. How cruel. I hold my breath, waiting for Ross to hesitate, waiting for him to weigh walls of glass against the stained couch in Elias’s living room.
Instead, Ross reaches into his pocket.
He pulls out his phone, the screen lighting up his face. He taps it once, then glances back at the car.
“You know, Elias gave me access to all of his video files,” Ross says, his voice calm, carrying a terrifying finality. “Security footage from his porch. It'll clearly show you harassing a former employee from the street.”
Arthur’s smirk falters. “Put the phone away, Ross.”
“I told myself I wouldn’t use it,” Ross goes on, staring at the screen. “I told myself I wanted to rebuild my life without dragging the wreckage of the firm with me. I wanted to be better than you.”
“Ross,” Arthur warns, authority leaking from his voice.
“But then you called my wife a ‘domestic squabble.’” Ross looks up, eyes hard. “She isn’t a squabble. She is the only thing that matters.”
He taps the screen. Types a few things.
“That was to the Labor Board,” Ross says, holding the phone up. “I just forwarded the file, along with a formal complaint for harassment, and a recording of this very conversation.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I absolutely am.”
Ross turns his back on the sedan. On the money. On the glittering tower.
“Drive away, Arthur,” he says over his shoulder. “It’s over.”
Arthur stands frozen, mouth open, his power dissolving into the rumble of the idling engine. Ross doesn’t glance back. He strides toward Elias’s porch, toward the battered wood planks and splintered railing, walking away from millions and a name on a skyline.
My chest tightens, then lightens.
When Ross rounds the corner and disappears from view, I step out from my hiding spot. The sun feels warmer, the air crisper,my heart swelling with the knowledge that he didn’t just walk away. He fought back.
Chapter 19
Ross
It's the night of Margot's showcase. I stand at the gallery entrance, the hum of laughter and chatter spilling onto the sidewalk. I feel lighter, yet exposed, a sensation that has less to do with the stiff denim I’m wearing and more with the small bouquet of wildflowers I’m clutching.
Bright track lighting floods the space. The air inside is thick with the scent of fresh paint, aged wood, and expensive wine. I let the door swing shut behind me, but instead of diving into the crowd, I linger near the entrance, content to observe from the periphery.
Margot’s four paintings are laid out in a corner of the room. They bloom against the stark white walls in violent reds, deep blues, and chaotic strokes. In my humble opinion, they’re more vibrant than the other artists’ works.
Then I spot her. She stands across the room, hair loose, gesturing as she speaks to an older couple. A laugh escapes her, a bright, infectious sound. The woman who once tirelesslyaccommodated my schedule and faded into the background is gone. In her place is the room’s center of gravity.
My gaze drops to the bouquet. There are no white roses ordered by an assistant this time, my standard gift for anniversaries and holidays past. These are messy, riotous blooms wrapped in butcher paper. Under the unforgiving gallery lights, they look unrefined. Inadequate. But they are real, and I hope she sees that.
A vibration against my thigh breaks the thought.
Old reflexes twitch,check it, step out, take the call.The phone buzzes sharply against my leg. It could be a recruiter. For a split second, the urge to check is a phantom limb I haven’t quite severed.
Margot tilts her head, listening to a patron, her smile easy and unburdened.
The phone buzzes again. My hand dives into my pocket, fingers brushing the cold metal. I look down, screen lighting up. But then, cutting through the noise in my head, I catch her laugh again. It anchors me.
I don’t read the text. Instead, I slide thedeclineswitch and shove the phone back into my pocket.
