Chapter 2 - Three Hours Until Regret|
The first thing Marcus noticed after the door closed was the silence.
Not the ordinary quiet of a late evening. This was a different silence, an absence so complete that the house seemed to have lost its center.
He stood in the hallway for several seconds, staring at the empty space where Paige had been.
Then Celeste touched his arm.
“You did the right thing.”
He looked at her.
“Don't.”
She withdrew her hand.
“Don't what?”
“Don't tell me what I did.”
Her expression hardened before smoothing into practiced concern.
“Marcus, you can't keep letting her control you with guilt. You said yourself that the marriage was over.”
He had said that. In private, during the long dinners and hotel meetings that had become increasingly difficult to explain. He had said it because Celeste wanted certainty, because she had made leaving her husband sound like an act of courage, and because he had wanted to believe that a man could start over without destroying everything he had built.
But he had never told Paige he wanted a divorce.
Not until tonight.
He walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. A glass container of soup sat on the middle shelf, labeled in Paige's handwriting.
For Owen—no mushrooms.
Beside it was another container.
For Marcus—extra pepper.
He closed the refrigerator.
“Where should I put my things?” Celeste asked from the doorway.
He looked around the kitchen, at the children's drawings held to the refrigerator by magnets, at the calendar covered in school events and pediatric appointments, at the small bowl where Paige always left her wedding ring when she kneaded bread.
“You can use the guest room.”
Celeste stared at him.
“I'm sorry?”
“The guest room.”
“You told me I could stay here.”
“I said you could come over.”
“You brought me here yourself.”
“Celeste, it's late.”
She laughed once, without humor.
“You make it sound as though I'm asking for something unreasonable.”
He rubbed his face.
“I'm not doing this tonight.”
“Neither was Paige, apparently. But you seemed perfectly comfortable doing it to her.”
He looked up sharply.
“Don't pretend you care about Paige.”
Celeste's eyes narrowed.
“I care about you.”
His phone rang before he could answer.
His sister, Natalie.
He nearly declined the call, but something about the timing made him pick up.
“Where are the kids?” she demanded.
Marcus frowned.
“What?”
“Paige just called me. She's outside with Owen and Lucy, and she says you've thrown them out.”
“I haven't thrown the children out. Paige chose to leave.”
“Did you actually hear yourself?”
“Natalie—”
“She's standing on a sidewalk with two children and a suitcase. It's eleven degrees outside, Marcus.”
“I'll arrange somewhere for them to stay.”
“Don't you dare turn this into a money problem.”
The call ended.
Marcus stared at the phone.
Celeste crossed her arms.
“She always takes Paige's side.”
“She's their aunt.”
“And I'm your partner.”
The word struck him strangely.
Partner.
He had used it to describe Celeste in conversations about the future, but never in front of his children. Never in a way that required him to examine what the word would mean in the house where Paige had spent eleven years building a life with him.
He went to the window.
A familiar gray minivan pulled away from the curb. Natalie must have arrived to collect Paige and the children.
Marcus watched until the taillights disappeared.
Then his phone buzzed.
A message from Paige.
The children are safe. Do not contact them tonight. Tomorrow, we need to discuss school, their belongings, and what you have done.
He typed three responses and deleted every one.
Finally, he sent:
I'm sorry things got emotional.
The message showed as delivered.
No answer came.
He checked the time.
11:07 p.m.
Three hours had not yet passed since he closed the door.
Marcus told himself the situation would settle by morning. Paige would cool down. The children would return to school. They would speak with lawyers and divide the assets. Celeste would move into the guest room temporarily, and he would eventually find a way to explain everything.
He had always been good at solving problems.
He simply hadn't understood that this time, he was the problem.
At 11:19, an unfamiliar number called.
“Mr. Hale?”
“Who is this?”
“My name is Daniel Brooks. I'm the emergency contact listed on your wife's private financial file.”
Marcus straightened.
“My wife doesn't have a private financial file.”
There was a pause.
“Then you should ask her why your company has been paying someone to monitor her accounts.”
Marcus felt the blood drain from his face.
“What company?”
“That's the problem, sir. The payments are coming from a subsidiary that doesn't officially exist.”
The call ended.
Marcus stood motionless in the kitchen.
From upstairs, Celeste called his name.
May you like
He didn't answer.
For the first time that night, he wondered whether Paige had left because she was heartbroken—or because she had discovered something he hadn't.
