I stare at the phone. The screen goes black, reflecting my own face back at me—grey, hollow, terrified.
She’s gone.
The next morning, the silence isn’t peaceful. It is heavy—a physical weight pressing down on the duvet where Margot should be. In between the realm of sleep and awake, my hand sweeps across the sheets to my left, seeking the warmth of her hip, the curve of her spine. But it finds only cold cotton, and I remember.
I sit up, the movement sharp and frantic. The room is gray, the sun struggling to break through the winter overcast, but the memory of last night is high-definition bright. It hits me with the force of a physical blow: the whisper, the name that wasn’t hers, the sudden, terrified stiffness of her body against mine before I drifted into the black.
Tabitha.
I squeeze my eyes shut, digging the heels of my hands into the sockets until I see stars. I didn’t say it. I couldn’t have said it. It was a dream, a hallucination brought on by eighty-hour weeks and sleep deprivation.
“Margot?”
My voice is a croak, rough with sleep and panic. I throw the covers back and stumble out of the bedroom. The house is quiet, not of a sleeping home, but the hollow, echoing of an abandoned one.
“Margot!” I yell this time, running down the stairs. I almost trip on the landing, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
The kitchen is messy from last night. Lamb on the table. Wine still in glasses. Dirty pans on the stove. It’s evidence of what I broke. I only toss the lamb but leave the rest.
Then, I stand in the center of the kitchen, breathing hard, my hands shaking. I need to find her. I need to get in the car, drive to her sister’s place in the city, drive to her parents’ house, drive until I find her and explain that it was nothing, that it was just a brain broken by workplace demands.
Bzzzt.
The sound comes from the granite island. My phone.
I stare at it. For a second, I think it’s her. I lunge for it, the screen lighting up the dim room.
Miller (Senior Partner): Dubai brief needs final eyes before the 9 a.m. filing. Don’t be late. Tabitha says the appendix is missing.
The name on the screen mocks me. Tabitha.
I drop the phone like it burns.
I should ignore it. I should throw the device into the sink and turn on the faucet. I should get in the car and drive to Margot.
But the logic, the cold, hard logic that has been drilled into me for seven years—kicks in.
If we lose the Dubai motion, the partnership track stalls. If the partnership stalls, the last five years of missed dinners, canceled vacations, and late nights were for nothing. I will have sacrificed my marriage for a career I then torched on a Tuesday morning.
I can’t lose both. I have to save the job for stability to save the marriage. It makes sense. It’s the only thing that makes sense.
I run a hand through my hair, exhaling a breath that shudders in my chest. Triage, I tell myself. Assess the damage. Stop the bleeding. Rebuild.
I can fix this. I just need time. Get the newest proposal filed, get Miller off my back, and then I can dedicate the entire evening to groveling. I’ll buy the diamond earrings she pointed at last month. I’ll book the trip to Italy. I’ll do whatever it takes. But I can’t do any of that if I’m fired.
I sprint back upstairs, not to pack a bag, but to shower.
The water is scalding, but I barely feel it. I dress with efficiency: charcoal suit. White shirt. The tie Margot bought me for Christmas. It feels restrictive, but I force myself anyway.
9 a.m. filing. Fix the appendix. Call Margot and beg for forgiveness.
I grab my briefcase and keys and pause at the front door. Grabbing my phone one last time, I dial her number.
It rings once. Twice. Three times.
“You’ve reached Margot. Leave a message.”
Her voice is light, happy, a recording from a time before I became this stranger who whispers the wrong name in the dark.
