Page 24 of The Husband I Left

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “She told me something,” I say, my voice thick with emotion I can no longer suppress. “About her relationship with Oliver. Why Oliver married me.”

Kylie’s eyes widen. “What? What did she say?”

I shake my head, not ready to repeat it out loud. “It doesn’t matter. Not anymore.”

“It clearly does matter,” Kylie argues. “You look like you’re about to either cry or commit murder.”

“I’m fine,” I insist, though we both know it’s a lie. “I just realized something; that’s all.”

“What?” Kylie presses.

I look back toward the cafe, where I can see Victoria still sitting at the table, her expression troubled. Good.

“I haven’t made Oliver suffer enough. Not nearly enough.”

Chapter 7

Genny

Ringing the bell on the door of the Sinclair mansion, I step back and wait, nervously smoothing my hair as I do so. The door swings open almost immediately, and Frederick, the Sinclair’s stone faced butler, stands before me in his impeccable suit. His eyes widen slightly when he sees me.

Coming here is a bit of a risk. Nancy could be home, and she’s high on my list of people I don’t want to see right now. But I’m fairly certain she’s at her standing Thursday spa appointment followed by lunch with her friends. As for Thomas, I honestly have no idea what his schedule is like. He could be in a boardroom. He could be on a golf course. He could be on the moon, for all I know. I’m gambling on him being home and on him being willing to talk to me.

Frederick’s eyes travel from my sneakers to my sweater to my hair, but if he finds anything amiss, he gives no sign of it. “I’m afraid Mrs. Sinclair is not at home at the moment.”

“I know,” I reply, trying to sound more confident than I feel. “I’m here to see Thomas.”

Now Frederick’s eyebrow definitely rises a fraction. “Is Mr. Sinclair expecting you?”

“No,” I admit. “But I need to speak with him. It’s important.”

Frederick hesitates for a moment, then steps aside. “Please come in. I’ll see if Mr. Sinclair is available.”

This place has always felt more like a museum to me than a home. Don’t get me wrong, it’s beautiful with marble floors, soaring ceilings, and artwork worth more than most people make in a lifetime. I’ve just never felt comfortable here. Everything seems designed to make visitors feel small, to remind them of their host’s superiority. I’ve always wondered if that’s intentional or just a happy accident of old wealth.

While I wait, I rehearse what I’ll say to Thomas if he agrees to see me.

I’m wondering if you could confirm that my marriage was nothing more than a practical joke.

Probably best not to lead with that.

Frederick returns after what feels like an eternity, but is probably closer to five minutes. “Mr. Sinclair will see you now. This way, please.”

I follow him down a hallway lined with portraits of stern-faced Sinclair ancestors, their judgmental eyes tracking my progress. We stop before a heavy door at the end of the corridor.

“Mrs. Sinclair to see you, sir,” Frederick announces, then steps aside to let me enter.

Thomas Sinclair’s office looks exactly like I expected it to: dark wood furniture, leather-bound books, an enormous desk that seems designed to intimidate anyone sitting across from it. Thomas himself sits behind this fortress, reading through papers, not bothering to look up as I enter.

“Have a seat, Genevieve,” he says, gesturing vaguely toward the chair in front of his desk.

I sit, folding my hands in my lap to keep them from fidgeting. Thomas continues to read, seemingly oblivious to my presence. I’ve never spent time alone with my father-in-law, and the silence between us grows more uncomfortable by the second. I’m just about to clear my throat when he speaks.

“My wife is very upset with you,” he says without looking up.

“Okay,” I reply, unsure what else to say.

“Nancy feels she was publicly humiliated by your performance at the gala,” he continues, turning a page of whatever he’s reading.