Page 79 of The Spare

So he threw himself on his sword for his brother, and he didn’t even get a proper payday out of the entire thing.

I studied business at uni and I’ve run a major division of a multi-billion-pound fashion brand for years. I know a thing or two about finance, and let me tell you this:

Acquisitions are always risky. However much due diligence you do (and let me remind you that Ben did none), there’s always the risk that you get the keys to your new empire and discover that the whole damn thing is rotten to the core behind the tarted-up façade.

All that expense, all that effort—and nothing to show for it.

I can only assume that the full horror of exactly this is dawning like a frigid mist on my kind, boyishly naïve husband, but worse: because the trophy wife he thought he’d landed turns out not only to not be an asset but to be an enormous fucking liability whose reputation is haemorrhaging value and tarnishing the reputation of the entire de Vere family, too. He’s done this deal; he’s balanced his ledger with Xav. Xav got to be with Ivy, and they’re blissfully happy, and the twins will grow up loved and financially secure. But on the other side of the transaction, which should have been a dead cert for Ben at least on the level of bagging himself a good little duchess, there’s nothing but an empty balance sheet. All the assets he thought I had: gone. Just a big black hole.

I bet he’s shitting himself. He must be. He’s been so attentive, so busy looking after me and my epic meltdown and too kind to bring up the fact that he didn’t sign up for this. That’s the thing: he’s so fucking kind, and it kills me. It kills me that he’s pitying me and also feeling horrified for himself and thinking Holy hell, how the fuck do I extricate myself from this shitshow? I can’t bear it; I can’t bear that he’s seeing me so vulnerable and dysfunctional and downright useless.

I can’t bear being this pitiful creature to him, this burden, at a time when he must be so plagued by disappointment himself.

The last time I felt even remotely like this was when Xav dumped me, and that was nothing compared to now⁠—

Because I wasn’t in love with Xav.

I’m in love with Ben. As he drifts off to sleep beside me, I know that more clearly than I know almost anything else to be true. I’ve fallen so fast and so hard and so fucking recklessly, because that’s how he’s made me feel these past few months: reckless, and empowered, and adored. I’ve fallen for his positivity and his passion and his awe-inspiring life force. His vitality has made me feel alive. It’s made me feel, for the first time, as if it’s safe to let go.

I did let go, and look what happened.

But let me say this. I thought what Xav did to me would break me. I’ll never forget that twenty-four hours of abject terror and powerlessness. I’ll never forget how it made me feel to be cast aside like that. He made a unilateral decision about our future, and there was nothing I could do about it.

I may be a pathetic, hollowed-out shell of myself right now, but there’s one thing I do have.

I have the agency to take control of the situation.

I have the ability to pre-empt any move Ben may make—or, far worse, any move he may want to make that his altruism is preventing him from making. The only thing worse than him running for the hills would be his wanting to run for the hills and staying with me out of pity and duty and breeding.

These fucking dutiful de Vere brothers. They’ll be the death of me.

All this is to say that I know what I need to do. I’ve known for a few days now, and the sweet way that he’s holding me, that he continues to be here for me so devotedly in his sleep, fortifies me even as it crucifies me.

What I need to do is—deep breath, Selena—the following:

I need to resign before I get myself fired. I need to call the shots. I need to exercise the only agency I have and walk away while I still have the strength to gather my tattered shreds of dignity around me.

The impossible part of it all is this:

I don’t know how the hell I’ll exist if I give this man up.

And I can’t live with myself if I don’t.

CHAPTER 37

Benedict

My wife is particularly ghostlike today, wandering about the house like a wan little wraith. Her skin is pale, and no wonder: she’s barely eating.

As long as she refuses to go into work, so do I. There’s no way I’m leaving her by herself all day so she can spiral to her heart’s content. She’s ostensibly working out of the study I’ve had set up for her next to the library, but I’m only an hour into answering emails in the breakfast room when she appears in the doorway, looking frail in her now-standard leggings and a baggy cardigan.

‘Can we go for a walk outside? I’d like to talk to you.’

I practically leap out of my seat. Talking is good. It’s very good. ‘Of course, sweetheart. Let’s go get some air.’

This is definitely my favourite time of year. The rhododendrons may have flared and faded, but the grounds of Belvedere are still fucking fabulous in all their greenery. The pale pink rambling roses have exploded across the aviary, and the air smells like crack. This was definitely a good idea. Surely it’s impossible for anyone to feel dejected out here?

I take Slinky’s cold little hand as we stroll and brush my thumb back and forth over her knuckles. There’s something so vulnerable about the dark smudges under her eyes that it breaks my heart in two. We may be the same age, but she looks so young, and the usual guilt threatens to engulf me that all of us have crushed her indomitable spirit so revoltingly.