Chapter 1

I lit the candles at seven-thirty, knowing even then that he wouldn’t come.

Still, I adjusted the place settings. Straightened the forks. Smoothed the linen runner for the third time. The orchid in the center—his favorite, he once said—was starting to droop, petals curling inward like they, too, were growing tired of the wait.

The dining room clock chimed eight. Its sound struck through the silence like a gavel. I looked at my phone. Blank screen. No missed calls, no messages, not even a read receipt.

I refreshed the thread anyway. Just to feel like I was doing something.

Still nothing. Clint hadn’t texted.

Wasn’t a new thing.

But this time, I didn’t feel disappointment. Not really. Disappointment needs hope. I was just... here. Existing in the echo of it.

The food sat untouched. Steam long gone. Coq au vin—his mother’s recipe, recreated with infuriating care. Chicken stewed in red wine and herbs, now congealed in its own intentions. The whole table was a parody of romance. A performance with no audience.

I reached for his wineglass—full, untouched—and moved it an inch to the left. Then back again. Mine was half-empty and warm.

I typed a message:

Dinner’s ready. I made your favorite.

Stared at it. Then backspaced, letter by letter.

What’s the point?

The silence had weight. It folded itself into the room like smoke, thick and inescapable. I leaned against the kitchen counter, pressing my fingers to the cool granite. Breathe. Maybe he’d show tomorrow. Maybe he was—

The doorbell rang.

I flinched.

Hope kicked inside my chest so hard it hurt. I wiped my palms down my dress and rushed to the door, smoothing my hair as I went.

But even before I checked the peephole, I knew.

Not Clint.

Of course not.

It was Eleanor.

I pulled the door open, biting back a sigh.

“Eleanor,” I said, stepping aside. “What a surprise.”

She kissed both cheeks with practiced precision. “Sylvia, darling,” she murmured. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

She always hoped she was. And she always succeeded.

Her eyes skimmed the room—the soft lighting, the two place settings, the sagging orchid. Her lips curved slightly, as if amused. I suddenly felt childish, like I’d been caught playing dress-up.

"Of course not," I said, summoning a brittle smile. "Lovely timing, actually. I was just sitting down."

She walked past me, her heels clicking authoritatively on the hardwood. “It’s Thursday,” she said.

I blinked. “Right. Of course.”

“Family dinner,” she added, like a teacher reminding a student of the rules.

“I must’ve lost track.”

“Clinton didn’t remind you?”

“No.” I hesitated. “He usually doesn’t.”

She made her way to the dining room, pausing at the threshold. Her gaze scanned the table like a critic appraising a failed art piece.

“I’ll get another plate,” I offered quickly, already moving.

“No need to fuss,” she called, settling—of course—into Clint’s seat.

I returned with the third setting, plated her food, and set it in front of her. She didn’t touch it. Didn’t even comment on the temperature.

“And Clinton?” she asked, airily.

“Working late. Something about Singapore.”

Her fork hovered. “That merger closed weeks ago.”

I said nothing. My silence made its own kind of statement.

She placed her fork down, untouched. “Odd, how busy a man can be. Even for his wife.”

The first cut. Gentle. Practiced.

“He’s committed to his work,” I said.

“Undoubtedly.”

We sat in the thick pause that followed. I sipped my wine, anything to fill the space.

Then she looked at me—truly looked—and I felt it coming.

“And how are things progressing?”

I took a longer sip. “No changes.”

Her expression didn’t shift, but her tone turned pointed. “Three years of marriage, and not even a close call. The Davenports aren’t exactly known for patience.”

“We’ve been trying,” I said, hating how defensive it sounded. Hating that it was too much truth for someone like her.

She gave a delicate shrug. “Trying usually requires... physical presence. Or intimacy. Do you two even live together anymore?”

The wine hit my throat like a spark.

“I can’t drag him home,” I snapped. “And I won’t beg him to touch me.”

Eleanor leaned back, unbothered. “You don’t need to beg. You need to remind him why he married you.”

I stared at her. “Are you implying this is my fault?”

Her tone stayed calm. Almost bored. “You had all the right ingredients, Sylvia. Intelligence. Elegance. Fertile bloodlines. I assumed you'd know how to keep a man.”

My spine stiffened. “And what exactly was I supposed to be—his entertainment?”

“No,” she said. “His investment.”

Something in me cracked. I stood, collecting the plates too quickly. They clinked loudly, my hands unsteady.

She didn’t move.

“I truly hoped you’d succeed,” Eleanor went on, like she was delivering condolences. “But the board is getting restless. The press is circling. And Clinton is... adrift.”

“Then talk to him,” I snapped. “He’s the one who left.”

“I have spoken to him.” She pulled a leather folio from her handbag and laid it on the table like a contract with the devil. “Now I’m speaking to you.”

I frowned. “What’s this?”

“A job offer.”

I stared at her.

“You’ll be joining Davenport Industries. Executive liaison. Five hundred thousand monthly. Office next to Clinton’s.”

I let out a laugh—one note, hollow and sharp. “You think throwing money at me will fix this?”

“It’s not money,” she said. “It’s purpose. And proximity.”

“To what? My absentee husband?”

“To relevance,” she said, her voice silk-wrapped steel. “You’re still here, Sylvia. Which means you still matter. At least, for now.”

I didn’t reply.

“You’ll start next week,” she said, standing smoothly. “Do make an effort with your wardrobe. You’ll be... visible.”

And then, like always, she left. Her perfume lingered in the air longer than she did.

I stood there, staring at the untouched folio. The candles flickered low. The food had grown cold. And somewhere inside me, something had begun to spoil.

But I didn’t cry. To be honest, I was far past that.