Chapter 2
The noise in the banquet hall seemed to die down a bit.
A few executives in the know exchanged glances.
"What was that young lady's last name again?" Charles asked.
He thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers.
"Clarkson, right? Emma Clarkson," he said.
Richard's smile froze for a split second.
"Mr. Warren, you've got a good memory. That's my wife, Emma Clarkson," Richard replied.
"I see. Mrs. Lane?" Charles's eyes lit up.
He remarked, "She's a great girl. Last year's proposal impressed the whole Warren board. Her thinking was clear, her data was solid, and her grasp of market demand was spot on."
He looked at Richard, speaking with the kind of bluntness one only got from someone older.
Charles asked, "So, why didn't you bring her tonight?"
Richard smiled. "She's a bit under the weather, so she's staying home tonight."
"That's a shame," Charles said, sounding genuinely disappointed. "I was hoping to talk to her about Skyline Bay Residence Phase II.
"Warren Realty has three new sites coming up, and if she's interested, I'd love to have her as the project's chief consultant."
Richard's wine glass froze halfway to his lips.
"Mr. Warren, well... She's become a full-time housewife. Probably..." said Richard.
"A full-time wife?" Charles waved his hand, clearly unimpressed. "That's such a waste. She's got real talent.
"Our analysts checked her Phase I proposal, and the numbers were spot-on. Richard, you lucked out marrying her. Don't let her brilliance get buried."
Richard set his glass down.
Smiling, he nodded his agreement. "You're right, Mr. Warren."
But his eyes remained cold.
Sophie stood off to the side, gripping her wine glass so tightly that her knuckles paled.
Her nails pressed painfully into her palms.
Still, her smile never faltered.
The dinner party went on.
Dish after dish was served.
Richard was distracted.
He kept sneaking peeks at his phone.
There was no message.
He messaged Emma: [Are you asleep?]
But there was no response.
He messaged again: [Why aren't you answering?]
Still nothing was received.
Charles scrolled through Instagram again.
He saw the selfie Sophie had posted.
It already had over a hundred likes.
The comments were all saying, [You are a perfect match.]
Something about it rubbed him the wrong way.
He couldn't quite put his finger on why it felt so off.
Charles closed Instagram and checked his chat with Emma again.
The last message was still from three days ago.
He'd sent: [I've got a work dinner Saturday night, so you'll have to eat alone.]
Her reply was: [Okay.]
There was only one word.
She used to reply with things like [Okay. Have a great one.] or [Sure. I got it.]
He couldn't remember when things had changed.
Now, all she ever sent back was [Okay.]
Richard flipped his phone over, screen down, and set it on the table.
He went on toasting, making his rounds, exchanging pleasantries.
By 10:30 PM, the dinner party was winding down.
Richard stood at the hotel entrance, seeing guests off.
As Charles was leaving, he shook Richard's hand.
Charles reminded him, "Make sure you talk to your wife about that proposal when you get home.
"I'm serious about this.
"It includes three lots from Warren Realty.
"We'll provide a 20-million-dollar marketing budget.
"We need the right person to run the show."
Richard shook Charles's hand, smiling politely.
"Don't worry, Mr. Warren. I'll talk to her," he said.
Truth be told, Richard's mind was somewhere else. He couldn't stop wondering why Emma hadn't answered any of his messages tonight.
After seeing off the last guests, Richard stood outside the hotel entrance, lighting up a cigarette.
The night breeze carried the chill of late autumn.
Richard pulled out his phone and called Emma again.
All he heard was a few beeps before he reached Emma's voicemail box.
He locked his phone and set it aside.
He lit his third cigarette, the smoke curling into the night air.
By 11 PM, Richard finally made it home.
He pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The entryway light was on.
The living room light was on, too.
Yet Richard didn't see anyone.
A plate sat waiting on the dining table.
It was cola‑braised ribs.
They were carefully covered with plastic wrap.
Next to it was a note.
Richard picked it up and glanced at it.
It was Emma's handwriting.
It read, [Dinner's in the fridge. You can heat it up tomorrow.
[I've already hung up the laundry.
[The gray suit you'll need tomorrow is the first one on the right in the closet.]
Richard stood rooted to the spot for a moment, holding the note.
It was a pale yellow sticky note.
Emma's handwriting was neat and elegant, every stroke perfectly formed.
Richard folded the note and slipped it into his pocket.
He stepped into the bedroom.
Emma was fast asleep.
She lay curled up on her side, facing the window, cocooned in the blanket.
The nightlight by the bed was on, casting a soft, golden glow over her hair.
She was still wearing that champagne dress.
Her dress was wrinkled and piled messily on the bed sheets.
She hadn't bothered to take off her makeup before going to bed.