“You are a good wife.”
“I don’t bring anything to this marriage.” The words come out flat, factual. “No money, no connections, no education. The least I can do is?—”
“The least you can do is what?” He turns toward me, and his voice has an edge I don’t usually hear directed at me. “Cook and clean and make yourself useful so I don’t notice you’re not worth keeping?”
The accuracy of it hits hard. “That’s not?—”
“Isn’t it?”
“I just want to contribute?—”
“You think I married you so I’d have a live-in cook and housekeeper?”
“No. I think you married me because you felt sorry for me.” The words land between us, and I watch him go very still. I should stop now. I should shut up. But I don’t. “And I’m trying to make sure you don’t regret it.”
The silence that follows is the wrong kind.
“I don’t regret it,” he says.
“I met Aoife Sullivan. She was at the luncheon. Your mother introduced us.”
“What did she say to you?”
“Nothing terrible. She showed me a picture of you two. At last year’s gala. You looked right together.”
“Nora. Look at me.” His words are stern, and I obey.
“I was never with Aoife like that—romantically, I mean. There was talk of an arrangement—on her family’s side and my mother’s. I never agreed to it.”
“I know about the business deal that?—”
“Has nothing to do with you.”
My voice stays level. I made a decision to say this, and I’m saying it. “I know the deal that fell through was worth twenty million dollars.”
His jaw tightens.
He stands. Moves to the window and back, pacing. It’s a contained stride, every movement deliberate, and it spikes my pulse.
“That deal is not your fault.”
“It fell apart because you married me instead of Aoife Sullivan.”
“It fell apart because the Sullivans are petty and vindictive.”
“But if you’d married her?—”
“I never would have married her! I didn’t fuckingwantto marry her!” His voice rises. It’s the first time I’ve heard it raised at me, and every muscle in my body locks.
He sees it and stops immediately.
“Nora.” Quieter now, but the control sounds like effort. “I’m not angry with you.”
“You shouted.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” He runs a hand through his hair. Then he crouches in front of me, getting down to my level. His eyes hold mine. “I’m not angry with you. I’m angry at the situation. At my mother, at the Sullivans, at everyone who’s made you feel like you’re not enough.”
“Everyonethinks I’m not enough.” The words leave my lips before I can stop them.
