Chapter 3
The photo showed Victor half-reclined on a lounge chair by the rooftop pool of a five-star hotel.
Right next to him was a young woman in a bikini.
She was leaning into his shoulder, her long legs sprawled across his lap, snapping a selfie with her phone.
The caption read: [Late night grind is the hardest]
Maeve stared at the photo for three seconds. Then she slammed her phone onto the floor.
The screen shattered, but the image lingered on the broken glass. With his eyes closed, Victor had a slight smile playing at his lips, his hand casually draped over the woman's waist.
Maeve stood in front of the dining table, staring at the spread of dishes that had all gone cold.
The candles had burned out.
The kitchen was still filled with the smell of cooking oil.
She crouched down to pick up her phone. The jagged screen bit into her finger, and a small drop of blood welled up.
She didn't make a sound.
*****
The next day, when Victor came home, Maeve shoved the screenshot in his face.
"You said you were in a meeting?" she demanded.
Victor glanced at the screenshot, his expression unchanged. "Maeve, that was arranged by the client—"
"Don't give me that client crap." Maeve's voice trembled. "Who is she?"
Victor sighed. He stepped forward, moving to hug her.
Maeve took a step back, her shoulder blade slamming into the edge of the sideboard. The pain made her suck in a sharp breath.
Victor's hand froze in midair, and he said, "Calm down."
"I am calm," Maeve said, her knuckles white as she clutched her phone. "Victor, look me in the eye and tell me. What is your relationship with that woman?"
Victor shoved his hands into his pockets and tilted his head.
That was his tell. He was searching for the right words. Maeve knew it all too well.
"Kayla Johnston, she's a model," Victor said flatly, like he was reciting a resume. "I met her through a client. She helped out at the last auto show event. Last night, the client hosted a dinner, and she was there too."
"She was sitting on your lap, and you call that dinner?" Maeve asked.
"She was drunk."
"And what about you? Were you drunk too? You were sitting there, eyes closed, grinning, holding her waist. Don't tell me you were drunk too?"
Victor's brow furrowed. "Maeve, do you have to do this—"
"What exactly am I doing wrong?" Maeve's voice rose, her eyes rimmed with red. "It's my birthday. You said you'd come home early.
"I waited for you for four hours. All the food went cold. And then I saw you with your arm around another woman—"
Her throat tightened, and she couldn't get the rest of the words out.
Victor didn't say anything for five seconds.
He walked over and pulled her into his arms.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, his chin pressed to the top of her head. "It's my fault. I shouldn't have gone yesterday."
Maeve didn't push him away.
She pressed her ear to his chest, feeling his heartbeat, her nails digging into her palm.
"Will you ever see her again?" she asked.
"No," Victor replied.
"Promise me."
"I promise."
Maeve closed her eyes.
She chose to believe him.
*****
But a month later, Maeve was in the mall restroom when she overheard two women chatting through the stall door.
"Kayla really lucked out. She landed herself Victor Boyle, and rumor has it Victor even bought her a villa."
"Seriously? What about his wife?"
"His wife? I heard she is a plain Jane from an ordinary family, nothing special to look at. Mr. Boyle's out there living his best life. His wife is nothing."
The water kept running, loud and steady.
The two women walked away, laughing.
Maeve stood in the stall. Her fingers rested against the wall. Her nails scraped across the tiles, letting out a soft, scratchy noise.
She didn't cry.
When she left the restroom, she drove straight to Victor's office.
When she got to the CEO's office, the door was unlocked. She pushed it open.
Victor was sitting behind his desk, reading a real estate contract on his computer screen. He looked up, surprised to see her.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
Maeve didn't say a word. She walked up to him, leaned over, and planted her hands on his desk, her gaze boring straight into his eyes.
"Violet Hill Villa, Building C12," she said.
Victor's eyes narrowed.
"You bought her a villa," Maeve said, her voice so soft it was like a blade slicing through paper. "Victor, you promised me you'd never see her again."
The office was dead silent. The air conditioning suddenly sounded deafening.
Victor leaned back in his chair, his brow furrowed.
"Who told you that?" he asked.
"Does it matter?" Maeve replied.
"Maeve—"
"Is it true?"
Victor didn't answer.
Maeve lashed out, sweeping everything off his desk. Pen holder, pens, folders, all scattered across the carpet with a loud crash.
"Is it true?" Maeve demanded.
Victor stood up. He came around the desk and seized her wrist. Not to comfort her, but to restrain her.
"Maeve, calm down," he said.
Maeve retorted, "Calm down? You've got a woman on the side, bought her a house and a car, and now everyone in town thinks I'm a joke. And you want me to calm down?"
She yanked her hand free and stepped back twice, her chest rising and falling, barely holding it together.
"I want a divorce," she said.
The moment those words left her mouth, Victor's face changed.
It wasn't guilt. He was downright offended.
"Maeve, what did you just say?" Victor asked.
"I said I want a divorce," Maeve repeated.