Page 35 of The Marriage Blunder

My phone buzzed.

Kenneth: “Wear it Saturday.”

I looked at the message, and at my reflection in the window, bowtie still perfect.

I didn’t ask which Saturday.

I already knew I would.

And somewhere, in a penthouse I was starting to think of as a second home, a man who’d spent most of his life running other people’s stories was telling his husband that, for once, the numbers had gotten it right.

I was all in.

And for the first time, I wanted to be.

Chapter Eight

~ Kenneth ~

Wednesday morning started as a five-alarm fire, but the only thing burning was my reputation.

By eight a.m., the group chat of my board of directors was a solid wall of color. One thread was a rolling stock report with the share price in cheerful blood-red: minus three percent, then minus four, then an optimistic rebound to minus two-point-eight. Two board-member emails were flagged as “requires urgent review,” both copying in an uncomfortable number of people.

My phone screen was a parade of missed calls—my father twice, my mother once, the second one just to confirm that the first had not been an accident.

I ignored them in order of importance.

The first real problem was Reeves, my attorney. He had the kind of voice that could induce insomnia over the phone, and he used it with the precision of a neurosurgeon.

His opening volley was, “We need to discuss the legal exposure of the current situation, both in terms of your personal standing and the optics for the company.” I could hear him clicking a pen as he talked, a staccato that kept time with every bullet point he laid out.

He outlined the risks: reputational, contractual, familial. “If we get ahead of the narrative, we can minimize the damage. Otherwise, we risk the opposition setting the terms.” By opposition, he meant my former fiancée, and a press ecosystem that could manufacture drama out of a single misplaced vowel.

The word “optics” occurred nine times in forty minutes. The word “exposure” occurred six. He wanted, in the way only lawyers can, for me to issue a public statement “clarifying the circumstances of the Las Vegas incident” and “affirming the integrity of the engagement’s dissolution.” He wanted me to use the phrase “amicable separation” even though the evidence suggested something closer to a war crime.

I let him talk, and when he was finished, I said, “Thank you, Reeves,” in the tone that signals the end of a quarterly report and, possibly, a professional relationship.

I did not authorize a statement. I was not going to apologize for Jude Thomas.

The rest of the day rolled out on the same frequency. Nine calls, no two shorter than twenty minutes. The content varied only in the surface details: one associate expressing “total support,” another warning that “any instability at the top would be amplified by the markets.” Two in-person meetings, both with men who wore expensive watches and cheap aftershave, each taking the measure of me like I was a particularly fragile vase on a narrow shelf.

I performed, because that’s what you do. I performed as a man who had everything under control, who had anticipated every move on the board, and was not even slightly rattled by the prospect of his entire adult life being subject to public audit.

Lunch was with a shareholder whose smile was so fixed it looked like a medical condition. He ordered the steak, then ate none of it, while he reassured me that “these things blow over, Kenneth, they always do,” and “you just have to keep your head down until they lose interest.” He meant it kindly, but his hands trembled when he poured the wine.

By the time the car rolled up to my building, it was well past dusk and my jaw was tight enough to register as a seismic event. I rode the elevator up alone, no music, no chatter, just the soft mechanical grind as I climbed toward something resembling safety.

The penthouse was dark. The scent of wood polish and old air hit me at the threshold. I turned the lights on low, crossed to the kitchen, and poured a glass of something that cost more than a semester of college and tasted like it.

I took a sip and braced both hands on the island. The city was a smear of lights beyond the window, and for the first time in years, I was aware of how far up I really was.

What I wanted was a drink, a quiet room, and Jude.

Two of those things were immediately available.

I pulled out my phone and typed, “Can you come over?” It took less time to send it than it did to think about sending it. I put the phone face-down on the counter, because watching the screen for a reply was not something I was willing to do.

I poured another finger of whiskey. I drank it. I waited, arms crossed, staring at the closed door as if the answer might come walking through it.