Chapter 11
Clara had stopped laughing at my stories months earlier because she had heard them all.
Sabrina made me feel new.
That was the drug.
Not sex.
Not secrecy.
Novelty.
With Sabrina, I was not the husband failing his wife.
Not the father frightened by the arrival of a child he didn’t know how to hold.
Not the businessman whose empire had cracks behind the polished stone.
I was simply Ethan Cole.
Desired.
Admired.
Important.
She listened when I spoke about deals.
She called my ruthlessness courage.
She called my impatience vision.
She turned every defect into a luxury feature.
And I paid her with access to the parts of myself I was too ashamed to bring home.
At six that evening, my solicitor arrived.
He carried a document folder.
My stomach tightened.
“What is it?”
“A formal notice from Clara’s solicitor.”
I did not touch it.
“Divorce?”
“Separation, at this stage. Communication boundaries. Temporary arrangements concerning Noah.”
I looked toward Ben.
He quietly left the office and shut the door.
My solicitor continued.
“She is not preventing you from having a relationship with your son. But given his age and the circumstances, she wants contact arranged carefully.”
“Where is she?”
“I am not going to tell you if she has asked that her location remain private.”
“I’m her husband.”
“For now.”
I looked at him sharply.
He did not move.
People had stopped being afraid of me quickly.
Perhaps fear had only ever been leased.
“Is she safe?”
“Yes.”
“And Noah?”
“Yes.”
“What happened last night?”
He hesitated.
“What do you mean?”
“With his fever.”
“I don’t have a complete medical account.”
“Tell me what you know.”
“Clara took him to be evaluated. He was treated. His fever came down. He is being monitored.”
I turned toward the windows.
“What time?”
“Ethan.”
“What time did she take him?”
“I don’t know.”
I did.
Or I could imagine it.
While I had been holding champagne.
While Sabrina’s phone had been recording from somewhere in the suite.
While I had been saying my wife was asleep.
Clara had been carrying our newborn through the rain.
Alone.
I pressed my palm to the glass.
It was cold.
“When can I see him?”
“We can request a meeting.”
“Request?”
“Yes.”
The word burned.
“Do it.”
“I will.”
“And tell Clara—”
I stopped.
Tell Clara what?
That I loved her?
Love had not brought me home.