Chapter 3

Before I slap the divorce papers onto your perfect little facade, you're going to pay back every last thing you owe me.

Morning light crept in when Tristan woke.

The first thing he did was lift his hands toward the sun, inspecting his fingers like they were rare artifacts.

I watched him, cold and silent, then pushed the bedroom door open with a bang. I tossed a plunger onto the floor in front of him.

"Tristan. The toilet's clogged again. Go fix it," I said.

He jerked in shock, his face instantly scrunched. He hid his hands under the blanket like a kid protecting toys.

"What now? Can't you use less paper? Just call maintenance. I have to get to work," he replied.

Before, the moment he said he was tired from work, I'd take on everything.

Changing light bulbs, unclogging drains, hauling groceries. Because he had that so-called wrist injury.

I let out a laugh that didn't sound like me and yanked his blanket away. "Call maintenance?

"That cost one hundred last time. How much do you even make a month? We have a baby on the way. We save money where we can."

I grabbed his wrist.

A pianist's hand. Smooth, perfect, not a single callus. Warm, long-fingered, strong.

The same hand that played Castle in the Sky on a Steinway yesterday was now being dragged toward a stinking bathroom.

"I'm not doing it! Aurora… I mean, I've got a morning meeting. I can't be late!" He stumbled over the words, cheeks flushing, trying to pull free.

"It takes five minutes. What's your problem? I'm pregnant with your kid and can't bend down. And you, the father, can't even unclog a toilet?" I said.

I raised my voice, sharp like broken glass, and made sure the front door was open so the whole hallway could hear.

"Or is it that you've got someone else out there? Is this place too dirty for you now?" I added.

At the word someone, something flickered in his eyes. His whole expression collapsed.

To protect his "faithful husband" image, to keep me from tracking his movements, he had no choice but to swallow it.

"Fine, fine, I'll do it, okay? Just… stop yelling. It's embarrassing," he said.

He gritted his teeth, picked up the plunger and walked to the bathroom with a face like death.

I stood at the doorway and lifted my phone.

On screen, the elegant piano prince in a tailcoat was now a man in baggy pajamas, bent over a filthy toilet, plunging like his life depended on it.

Dirty water splashed out, landing on the back of his precious hands.

He gagged, shoulders shaking, looking like he might collapse.

"Put your back into it. Didn't you eat today?" I leaned against the doorway, my voice cold enough to frost the tiles. "And the left side's still blocked. What the hell are you poking at?"

Tristan closed his eyes, pressed his lips tightly together, and veins bulged on his forehead.

I knew he was enduring it.

He was silently reciting Mozart and Beethoven in his mind, trying to use art to detach himself from this squalid reality.

But I would not let him have his way.

"Are you done? When you finish, scrub the floor. I can't stand the smell. Makes me wanna puke." I waved a hand, pinching my nose.

Twenty minutes later, Tristan staggered out of the bathroom looking like someone had drained the soul out of him.

The hands that once danced across a Steinway had turned ghost-white from the disinfectant. His fingertips were still trembling.

"I'm going to work," he muttered. He didn't even look at me, just grabbed his keys like he was escaping a burning house.

"Stop." I pointed to the kitchen. "Trash. Take it out. And bring in those packages by the door. They're diapers for the baby."

Tristan drew in a sharp breath, something murderous flashing in his eyes before he swallowed it down.

"Honey, my hand hurts..." he whined, trying to elicit sympathy.

"Oh really? From what, scrolling on your phone?" I shot him a sweet, poisonous smile. "Your hands aren't broken. Carrying a couple boxes won't kill you."

He froze for two seconds, then bent down, grabbed the trash, and hauled the two heavy boxes of diapers inside.

Watching those shaking fingers of his, I felt something twisted and sweet curled in my chest.

Tristan, this was just the beginning.

Your hell was just getting warmed up..