During the day, I go through the motions at work. I answer emails. I attend meetings. I smile at colleagues who have no idea that my so-called husband nearly committed murder less than seventy-two hours ago. The normalcy of it all feels absurd. Like I’m living two separate lives that don’t belong in the same universe.
Derek from analytics asks me if I’m feeling okay. I tell him I’m just tired. He offers to grab me a coffee, and I almost burst into tears at the simple kindness. What is wrong with me?
At night, I pace the penthouse like a caged animal. I make dinner, but I don’t eat. I run baths I don’t take. I stare at my phone, willing it to light up with a message, then hating myself for wanting one.
Now I’m sitting on the couch in the living room, pretending to read a book I haven’t absorbed a single word of, and I don’t know what I’m feeling anymore. Fear? Anger? Worry?
All three, maybe. Tangled together until I can’t separate them.
I keep telling myself I should be relieved. He’s giving me space. He’s not forcing conversations or explanations. He’s letting me process what I saw on my own terms.
But another part of me—a part I don’t want to acknowledge—keeps wondering where he is, what he’s doing, and whether he’s okay.
What if the man from his office had friends? What if they came after Menlow in retaliation? What if he’s lying in some warehouse somewhere, bleeding out, and I’m just sitting here reading the same paragraph for the fifteenth time?
It’s ridiculous. The man is a killer. Or almost a killer, at the very least. Does the distinction even matter?
I saw what he’s capable of. I should be grateful he’s staying away.
So why do I keep checking my phone for messages that never come?
The front door opens, and I nearly jump out of my skin.
Menlow walks in, still wearing his suit from the office, though his tie is loosened and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. He looks exhausted. Dark circles ring his eyes, stubble shadows his jaw, and his shoulders slump in a way I’ve never seen before. He moves like a man carrying something heavy. Something invisible.
He stops when he sees me on the couch. For a moment, neither of us speaks.
“You’re home,” I finally say. My voice comes out harsher than I intended.
“I am.”
“That’s new.”
He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. The gesture is so weary, so human, that something in my chest twists. I ignore it.
“Kirsten—”
“Three days.” I set my book aside and stand up. “Three days, Menlow. You disappear without a word, don’t answer my texts, don’t tell me where you are or if you’re even alive, and now you just walk in like nothing happened?”
“I didn’t think you wanted to hear from me.”
“That’s not—” I stop myself, take a breath. “That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
“The point is that I live here. With you. In this bizarre arrangement that you forced me into.” I cross my arms over my chest. “The least you could do is let me know you’re not dead in a ditch somewhere.”
Something moves across his face. Surprise, maybe. Like he didn’t expect me to care whether he lived or died.
Good. Let him be surprised. I’m surprised too.
“I’m sorry,” he states quietly. “I should have communicated better.”
“Yes. You should have.”
“I didn’t realize you’d be worried.”
“I wasn’t worried.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. “I was… inconvenienced. There’s a difference.”
