Chapter 3
“Vincent?”
“I don’t know exactly what I feel.”
I nodded.
That was worse than yes.
A man who knew he loved another woman might at least understand why he was destroying his marriage.
My husband was prepared to destroy ours because he wanted to find out.
“All right,” I whispered.
I picked up the fountain pen beside the agreement.
Vincent leaned forward.
“Mara, stop.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“You haven’t had time to think.”
I almost smiled.
“You had six months.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“You want the divorce, Vincent.”
“Yes, but—”
“Then why are you surprised that I’m agreeing?”
He rubbed a hand over his face.
For the first time that evening, he looked genuinely frustrated.
“I expected you to care.”
The pen stopped in my hand.
Something inside me shifted.
It wasn’t the first time Vincent had hurt me.
It wasn’t even the cruelest thing he had ever said.
But it was the first time I understood how little he knew about the life we had shared.
“You expected me to care?”
“Mara, don’t twist my words.”
I stood.
The sound of my chair moving across the marble floor echoed through the dining room.
“Do not confuse dignity with indifference.”
Vincent went still.
I could feel the tears gathering behind my eyes.
I had promised myself I wouldn’t cry.
Not because crying was weakness.
But because I was terrified that if I started, I wouldn’t be able to stop.
“I cared when I stopped working full-time because photographers followed me outside the hospital.”
His expression tightened.
“That was a security issue.”
“I cared when you asked me to take a temporary leave because someone sent threatening letters to my workplace.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
“I know what you said you were doing.”
My voice grew louder.
“I cared when temporary leave became another leave, and another, until I finally resigned from the career I spent most of my adult life building.”
Vincent looked away.
I had not spoken about my career like that in years.
Perhaps he had convinced himself I had forgotten.
Perhaps I had helped him believe it.
“I never forced you to quit,” he said quietly.
Those six words hurt almost as much as the divorce.
“No,” I answered.
“You didn’t.”
I looked around the dining room.
At the expensive paintings.
The carefully arranged flowers.
The crystal glasses that were replaced whenever a servant noticed a fingerprint.