Chapter 11
Her face flushed.
“I wanted you to see it.”
“Why?”
“Because I was angry.”
“At me?”
“At both of you.”
That surprised me.
Sophie wrapped both hands around her coffee.
“Julian told me you two had been living separate lives for almost a year.”
I said nothing.
“He said you stayed married because of the companies and publicity. He said you had your life and he had his.”
“We ate breakfast together the morning I saw you in Charleston.”
Her eyes dropped.
I continued.
“Three weeks before that, we spent a weekend in Savannah for our anniversary.”
Sophie closed her eyes.
“He told me that was for appearances.”
“There were no photographers.”
She swallowed.
I could have enjoyed watching the truth hurt her.
I didn’t.
Pain looked disappointingly similar on every woman.
“How long?” I asked.
“I met him seven months ago.”
Seven months.
“He came into the restaurant after a meeting. He started coming back.”
“And you knew he was married.”
“Yes.”
At least she didn’t lie.
“I asked about you. He said things had been over emotionally for a long time.”
I looked through the café window.
People crossed the square outside.
Ordinary lives.
Ordinary problems.
“Did you sleep with him?”
“No.”
I looked at her.
She held my gaze.
“Not before he told you. I told him I wouldn’t.”
That matched what Julian had said.
It didn’t make the betrayal harmless.
But it mattered that their stories matched.
“What happened after I left?”
“He asked me to come to Hawthorne because reporters found my apartment.”
“And you brought suitcases.”
“I thought…” She stopped.
“You thought you were moving in.”
“Yes.”
There it was.
“Then what?”
Sophie gave a bitter little laugh.
“I discovered your husband had no idea how to live in a house without you.”
I frowned.
“He kept asking Margaret where things were. He wandered into your study twice. He told the cook you hated rosemary, then remembered you weren’t there.”
My throat tightened despite myself.
Sophie continued.
“On the first night, I found him sitting in the dark in your bedroom.”
I looked away.
“He said he was looking for something.”
“What?”
“He wouldn’t say.”
I knew.
In the bottom drawer of my nightstand was a small wooden box.
Inside were photographs from the years before Mercer Holdings.
Our first apartment.
Julian asleep over his laptop.
The courthouse where we married.
The cheap silver ring he bought before he could afford my real one.