Two Days Before the Hurricane
The drive home from the Ritz-Carlton—away from Simon, away from the veiled accusations he lobbed—passes in a blur. Street signs barely register. All I can see is the litany of mistakes I’ve made flashing through my head.
How did I miss it? Simon’s jealousy. The Redwood hack. And Beau.
Beau. How could he hide the truth from me for all these years?
When I finally reach the driveway, my hands tighten on the wheel. This house is supposed to be ours—walls we painted together, a life we made. But now all I can see is the fault line running through it.
I’m about to walk in and ask Beau the kinds of questions you can’t take back, questions that split everything open. And I’m not sure I want the answers.
“Este?” Beau’s voice startles me. I turn and see him stepping out of his car beside me in the garage. His face is caught in the wash of headlights dimming on a timer.
I’m out of my car before I know it, adrenaline crackling through me.
“I just got back from the police station,” he says. “Where were you?”
The words rip out of me before I can stop them. Loud and sharp. “Were you behind the Redwood security breach?”
His brow ripples with the start of a frown or something more sinister, like he’s doing everything he can to mount a defense.
He dips his head to reach my eye level. “Can we go inside to talk about this?”
I open my mouth—to agree? To scream?—but no sound comes out. Because I already have my answer. I can see it in his eyes.
I know he did this. Because I know him.
And that’s when I realize two things at once: I was right to suspect he’d lied about what really happened the night Gemma died. Because he absolutely had something to do with the security breach that sank a multibillion-dollar company. And he’s been keeping it from me for years.
My chest seizes. “I can’t breathe.”
I shoulder past him, stumbling into the house, desperate for oxygen.
Inside, the stillness in the air feels heavy. I grip the kitchen counter until my knuckles are white.
The door clicks shut behind him. His footsteps follow, measured, deliberate.
“Este.” That’s all he says. My name, low, careful.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “This whole time.”
He stops a few feet away. I can feel him watching me, the weight of his gaze dragging heat across my skin.
“This whole fuckingtime! You kept this from me.”
“Este, it’s not—”
“Don’tbotherdenying it, Beau.” I drop my hands from my eyes. “Is this why we moved here? Why you took the meeting with Redwood? Is this why you married me?”
“Come on, Este.” His voice is softer now. Each time he says my name, it’s slightly calmer, like he’s trying to coax me back from the brink of madness.
“You were never going to sell to him, but you wanted something from inside that office. So you let me book the meeting. You let me walk you in there. Did you think I was stupid?”
His eyes plead with me to stop, but I can’t.
“And then hefiredme.” I don’t realize I’m crying until thetears start to burn the corners of my eyes. “Because of that meeting. My career—” The word tightens my throat.
Beau’s jaw flexes once, twice. He looks like he’s choosing his words with a gun to his head.
