The words hang in the air, suspended. I didn’t expect them. I expected a justification, a defense of her talent, or a subtle dig disguised as advice.
“I treated your marriage as a technicality,” she says. Her voice is low, meant only for me, stripped of the corporate polish. “I convinced myself that because I understood the work, I understood him. I blurred lines that shouldn’t have been blurred. I disrespected you, and I disrespected your home.”
She pauses, waiting for a reaction, but she doesn’t look for pity. She states it as a fact, a calculation she got wrong.
“I thought I was the exception,” she admits, a flicker of bitterness crossing her face. “I wasn’t. I was a distraction from what was really wrong.”
She glances at Ross, then quickly back to me.
“I’m not excusing him,” she adds quickly. “He has his own work to do. But for my part in the damage… I am sorry.”
Standing there, admitting defeat, she’s a woman who gambled on a narrative that wasn’t true and lost everything on the bet.
“Thank you,” I say. It’s all I can manage.
She nods, a quick, sharp motion to regain her composure.
“Your work is excellent, by the way,” she adds, glancing at the canvas one last time. “Arthur would hate it. Which means it’s good.”
A ghost of a smile touches her lips, dry, ironic. She turns to Ross.
“Good luck, Calder.”
“Goodbye, Tabitha,” Ross says. The finality in his tone is absolute.
She turns and weaves back into the crowd, her black dress disappearing toward the exit. The space she occupied feels suddenly lighter, the air rushing back in to fill the void.
I let out a long, shuddering breath. My shoulders drop, the tension draining out of me.
Ross steps back into my space. He studies my face, searching for damage, checking for cracks. “You okay?”
I look at the spot where she stood, then up at him. The wildflowers are still heavy in my hand, a reminder of the mess. “Yes.”
He smiles, a small, genuine expression that reaches his eyes and softens the hard lines of his face. “Good. Now, tell me about this painting.”
I slip my hand into the crook of his arm. Muscle shifts beneath the denim, warm and solid.
“Okay,” I say, leaning into him. “Let’s talk.”
And talk we do. All night.
Chapter 21
Ross
Spending time with my wife at her showcase was amazing. But all good things must come to an end, because that asshole Arthur got one thing right: I need a job.
So here I am. At yet another interview. The headhunter slides a contract across the glass table. It moves with a soft hiss. The paper is heavy, printed on linen stock, and the salary figure at the bottom is bolded. It’s enough to buy a small island. It’s enough to refill the savings account I’ve been draining.
“We’ve admired your work on the Dubai project from afar, Ross,” the hiring manager says. He’s a man in his fifties, wearing a Patek Philippe watch and a smile that’s entirely practiced. “We need that kind of relentless drive here atVee & Viv.We’re looking for a lead who lives and breathes the job.”
Staring at the contract, my fingers itch to pick up the pen. It’s the easy button. It’s a return to status.
Then I look up. Beyond the glass wall of the conference room, the open-plan office stretches out like a factory floor.
It’s 6:00 p.m. on a Tuesday, and the office is packed.
Every desk is occupied. The overhead lights are fluorescent and harsh, casting long shadows. Jackets are draped over chair backs. Sleeves are rolled up. Takeout containers, Thai, pizza, burgers, sit beside glowing monitors, the grease staining the blueprints.
