Chapter 3
Two minutes later, the club's manager came rushing out, drenched in sweat. "Mrs. Stewart, I'm so sorry. The new guy didn't know any better."
He shot the waiter a fierce look, but instead of grabbing my suitcase, he stepped aside and made an overly respectful gesture, inviting me in.
His eyes paused on my shabby clothes for a split second before quickly looking away, but the awkward twitch at his lips totally gave him away.
Everyone was watching, waiting to see me make a fool of myself.
I straightened my back and dragged my suitcase behind me, the wheels making a muffled rumble as they rolled over the thick carpet.
The hallway was dimly lit, with raucous singing and flirtatious laughter drifting out from the private rooms on either side.
The further I walked in, the soundproofing got better, until I finally stopped in front of the heavy, ornately carved copper door of the private room 8.
Before the manager could even knock, I raised my foot and slammed it into the door with more force than I'd ever used in my life.
With a loud bang, the jazz music inside came to an abrupt halt.
The heavy door bounced off the wall, echoing loudly in the hallway.
The private room was huge, bathed in a sultry wine-red glow. Seven or eight men lounged on the massive circular sofa, each with one or two young, pretty girls snuggled up beside them.
The air was thick with smoke and reeked of booze.
Isaac sat in the center, in the main seat.
He held a whiskey tumbler in his hand, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his posture lazy and unbothered.
To his left, a long-haired girl in a white dress was peeling a grape, her fingers pinching the translucent flesh, about to feed it to him.
Her profile was sweet and innocent, her eyes crinkling at the corners when she smiled.
She even reminded me a little of myself back in my college days.
As the door swung open, everyone froze in place.
The girl's hand trembled, and the grape rolled onto the marble table, spinning a few times before coming to a stop beside Isaac's glass.
Isaac's smile hadn't quite faded as he slowly turned his head, his gaze cutting through the haze of smoke to land on me standing in the doorway.
For a split second, he looked genuinely stunned.
It was probably the first time in our five years of marriage that I'd ever seen that look of being caught off guard on his face.
His eyes swept over my messy hair, my cheap denim jacket, and finally landed on the old suitcase in my hand.
His brows instantly knitted together in a deep frown.
The room was eerily quiet, with only the faint sound of ice melting in glasses breaking the silence.
People started whispering all around. Some recognized me, letting out a sharp intake of breath, while others looked like they were expecting some drama, their eyes flicking between the girl and me in the white dress.
"Wait, is that Mrs. Stewart?"
"Why's she dressed like that? Is she here to bust Mr. Stewart for cheating?"
"Shh, keep your voice down. Mr. Stewart looks pissed."
Isaac set his glass down.
The bottom of the glass hit the table with a crisp clink.
He didn't even spare a glance at the girl beside him, didn't bother to explain. He slowly stood up, straightened his collar, and slipped right back into that aloof, commanding demeanor.
"Why are you here?" His voice was icy, even colder than it had been at home earlier, with an offended authority.
Showing up like this in front of so many business partners and his fair-weather friends was nothing short of humiliating him.
I kept my mouth shut, dragging my suitcase behind me, taking one deliberate step after another until I stood right in front of the coffee table.
The girl in the white dress shrank back, her eyes wide with fear as she looked to Isaac, as if begging him to protect her.
I didn't even look at her.
I bent down, grabbed the unopened bottle of Louis XIII from the table, and, with everyone staring in shock, hoisted it high above my head.
"Isaac," I said, flipping my wrist as I called his name.
I didn't hurl the bottle at the girl, and I didn't smash it over Isaac's head either.
Instead, I brought it crashing down into the crystal fruit bowl, sending ice and booze flying everywhere.
With a crash, glass shards sprayed everywhere, and liquor gushed all over the table.
The peeled grape was instantly drowned in the amber booze, turning cloudy and messy in a heartbeat.
I pulled out the papers I'd carefully smoothed from inside my jacket and slapped them down on the booze-soaked table. "Sign it."
The air in the room felt like it had turned to glue, thick and suffocating.
Shards of glass were still rolling softly on the floor, giving off their final, pitiful rattles.
Isaac didn't move. A few drops of liquor splattered onto his expensive, custom-tailored pants, leaving dark stains, but he didn't even flinch.
He stared at me, his eyes behind those glasses stormy, like a blizzard about to break loose.
The guy in the floral shirt, one of Isaac's business partners, had been laughing his head off with a hostess moments ago. Now he was awkwardly holding his glass, not sure whether to take a sip or put it down.
"Hey, Mrs. Stewart, what's this all about? Why don't you two just talk it out calmly?" he tried to smooth things over, but his voice came out dry and awkward.
"Get out." Isaac's lips barely parted as he spoke, but those words hit like a hammer. He wasn't talking to me.
The guy in the floral shirt froze for a second, then looked like he'd just been let off the hook. He shot a glance at the others, and the whole rowdy crowd bolted like a bunch of startled animals.
They scrambled up, didn't even bother with their jackets, pushing and shoving their way out the door.
The girl in the white dress tried to slip away, but I happened to be standing right in her way.
She bit her lip, her eyes rimmed with red, and shot Isaac a pleading look.
Isaac didn't even look at her. He just pulled out his checkbook, tore off a blank check without bothering to fill in the amount, and tossed it onto the booze-soaked table. "Get out."
The girl grabbed the check like it was a lifeline. She didn't even bother to check the amount and bolted past me like she was running for her life.
As she rushed by, a sweet, cloying scent of gardenia perfume lingered in her wake.
How ironic. She even picked the same perfume I used to wear.'
Even in a moment like this, Isaac still clung to that nauseating need to be in charge. In less than a minute, the massive private room was cleared out, leaving only the two of us and the relentless roar of the ventilation fan.
Now, every last shred of pretense was stripped away.
Isaac slowly pulled out a tissue and wiped a drop of liquor from the back of his hand.
"Are you done making a scene?" he asked. It was the same line.