The beep sounds.
“Margot, babe,” I start, my voice tight. I’m walking to the car as I talk, the gravel crunching under my dress shoes. “I know you said not to call, but we need to talk. I’m… I’m terrified, Margot. Please call me.”
I unlock the car door, tossing my briefcase onto the passenger seat.
“I have to go in,” I continue, the excuse tasting like ash in my mouth. “The Dubai filing is at nine. We can’t miss it, or Miller will have both my head and legal’s. But I’ll be home by six. I promise. Please come home. We’ll order dinner. We’ll talk. I’ll fix this. I love you. Please, just… call me back.”
I end the call and grip the steering wheel. My knuckles are white.
I look at the empty house one last time. A part of me, the part that isn’t an architect, screams at me to turn off the engine and wait on the front porch until she comes back.
But the clock on the dashboard reads 7:15 a.m.
I shift the car into reverse. I’m going to work. I’m going to secure the future. And then, tonight, I’m going to win my wife back.
It’s a solid plan. It has to be.
Chapter 5
Margot
The guest room at Wren’s house smells of lemon pledge and neglect. It’s a cold, sterile scent, the smell of a life that doesn’t belong to me.
I sit on the edge of the twin bed, knees pulled up to my chest, staring at the phone resting on the duvet.
Wren is downstairs. I can hear her aggressive banging of pots and pans, a symphony of righteous indignation. She wants me to be angry. She wants me to burn Ross’s clothes and change the locks.
But I’m not angry. I’m hollowed out.
I close my eyes, and I’m back in our bed. I feel the warmth of his skin, the weight of his arm, the safety I thought I had secured after weeks of feeling him slip away. And then, the whisper.
Tabitha.
It wasn’t just a name. It was a confession. It was proof that even when he is inside me, his mind is in that glass tower, sitting next to the woman who speaks his language.
I pick up the phone.
There are three voicemails from him. I haven’t listened to them. I can’t bear to hear his voice.
But then I remember his face yesterday morning, the gray, sunken look of him. Ross isn’t a villain; he’s an addict. He’s addicted to the praise, to the adrenaline, to the validation of the firm.
Does he love her?
The question has been eating at me for twenty-four hours. Or does he just love that she is part of the addiction?
I unlock the phone. My thumb hovers over his name.
“One chance,” I whisper to the empty room.
I’m breaking my own rule. I told myself I needed space. I told myself I wouldn’t let him talk his way out of this. But ten years of marriage is a heavy thing to discard.
I need to know where he is.
If he’s at home, pacing the kitchen, terrified… then maybe there’s something left to save. If he took the day off to find me, to fix this… I’ll talk to him.
But if he’s there…
I press the call icon.
