“I’ll help you,” I promise, even though I’ve got no clue how. This isn’t the same as Ginny’s agitation—easily swayed away with the temptation of a frozen treat. This situation is hurting Mase down to his bones, and I don’t fully understand why.
There is something else going on with him, something bigger than a baseball coach with a broken leg, but if I push too hard or too fast, he’ll snap his guard up faster than I can blink.
“We start with ice cream,” I whisper. “And we go from there.”
Mase spendsthe better part of the evening bad-tempered and sulking, refusing to eat his dinner and scowling whenever I risk eye contact. I keep my smile pinned to my face,refusing to let his attitude get to me, knowing it’ll only make his heels dig in deeper if I do.
By nine, both kids are in bed, asleep, and I’m perched on a barstool at the kitchen island, a full glass of wine in hand, the liquid cool and crisp against my throat.
It’s no surprise that Christopher isn’t home. My phone is dark where it sits beside my hand—a silent reminder that he never even bothered to let me know.Again.
It’s got me thinking of every other night he didn’t come home or walked in late without a single call.
Is it my fault for not asking enough questions? Did my passive agreement give him permission to just do whatever the fuck he likes?
Whoeverthe fuck he likes.
And then I pour kerosene all over those internal thoughts, setting them on fire and burning them to ash.
Nothing about this shit ismyfault.
I didn’t ask for a husband who fucks everything that moves.
I didn’t ask foranyof this.
I finish my wine and pour myself another, picking up my phone to call my lawyer, Ian. He answers after the third ring. “Mrs. Delcourt. As this is outside my office hours, I’m assuming it’s somewhat urgent.”
“Somewhat,” I agree, appreciating the fact that my husband’s last name gives me privileges, even if hearing it makes me feel ill. “I discovered today that Christopher installed cameras in his office and connected them to his company’s internet. The CEO showed me some of the footage.”
There’s a startled pause. “Well, that is interesting. He filmed his own, uh…indiscretions?” His disbelief at Christopher’s audacity matches my own. I fill him in on what Grafton told me this afternoon. “Do you have copies of the footage?”
Grafton’s face flashes through my mind—the way his eyes had tracked my every movement, the firm set of his mouth as he watched me flee from his office. “I believe the CEO would be amenable to give me access to the footage,” I say softly.
“And he’s aware of any possible legal ramifications?”
I go still, glass halfway to my lips. “What legal ramifications?”
“If he were to give you the footage without a subpoena, there’s a chance that Christopher could take the matter further, claiming an invasion of privacy or distribution of sensitive material. It opens the CEO?—”
“Grafton Reynolds.”
“Mr. Reynolds. It could open him up to a lawsuit.”
I tap my nails against the glass. “Even though the footage technically belongs to the company?”
“Even so. However, it shouldn’t impact your divorce. Christopher installed the cameras himself, which means he had full knowledge of being monitored. You said he was also fully aware of the company’s policy, and what would become of the footage?”
“Yes.” I swallow a healthy mouthful of wine before murmuring, “I guess I’ll need to speak to Grafton.”
Ian makes a noise of agreement. “Yes. But as soon as you have the footage, bring it to my office.” There’s a weighty pause, and then he says, “And then we’ll get you yourdivorce.”
When I walkinto the kitchen, Christopher’s standing near the coffee machine. He’s wearing a crumpled suit, his tie hanging loosely around his neck. He turns at my footsteps, and I take in his bloodshot eyes and the rough stubble covering his jaw.
“Where were you?” he demands hoarsely. He runs a hand through his blond hair, leaving the strands sticking up on end.
I stare at him impassively. “I slept in the guest room.” I touch a hand to my throat. “It feels like I’m coming down with something, and I didn’t want you to catch it.”
My expression doesn’t flicker at the irony ofthat, but the truth is I couldn’t stomach another night in the same bed as him.
