Page 53 of The Husband I Left

“Where are you going?” Leo calls after me. I don’t answer him.

“Mr. Long is waiting on line—” Victoria stops when she sees my face.

“Cancel it,” I bark at her. “Cancel my calls. Cancel everything.”

Victoria hurries after me as I stalk away, her expression irritated. “You can’t just—“

“Cancel my calls and meetings for the rest of the day,” I cut her off. “And for tomorrow, too.”

“But what am I supposed to tell—”

“I don’t care, just handle it,” I snap, not slowing down. “Or, better yet, have someone competent handle it.”

I don’t wait for her response. Instead, I stride towards the elevator, punching the button for the lobby with more force than necessary, ignoring the startled looks from the other passengers as I mutter to myself like a madman.

Leo’s words echo in my head.

What you mean is, she didn’t want your money. That’s the only thing you offered her.

The elevator doors close. The man reflected back at me in the polished brass is a mess. Wrinkled shirt, suit coat balled up in his fist, hair greasy and eyes red-rimmed and hollow. I don’t even recognize him.

Leo is right. I do look like shit.

I lean my head back against the wall of the elevator and close my eyes as it begins its long descent, and unbidden, an image of Genny pops into my mind, barefoot and dancing in her father’s backyard, finally free.

Chapter 17

Oliver

The bottle feels heavy in my hand as I pour another drink, watching the amber liquid splash against the crystal. I’ve lost count of how many I’ve had since I stormed out of the office. Was that yesterday? The day before? Time blurs at the edges, much like my vision, as I slump deeper into the leather chair in my home office. The only constant is the burning in my chest that no amount of expensive whiskey seems capable of extinguishing.

My phone buzzes again somewhere on the floor where I tossed it hours ago. Leo, most likely. Or someone from the board. A few of them have tried to call me, probably alarmed by reports of my erratic behavior. Maybe it’s even my mother. I don’t care. I let it ring until it falls silent, then pour myself another drink.

I’m not sure when day becomes night becomes day again. The curtains remain drawn, and I exist in a perpetual twilight. Mrs. Stewart comes and goes like a ghost, leaving trays of food I barely touch. She tries to speak to me once or twice, but I wave her away. Eventually, she stops trying.

Another day passes. Or maybe two. The bottle that was full is now empty, so I open another. And another after that. I go from the office to the bedroom, from the bedroom to the sofa, my body growing heavier with each passing hour, my mind cloudier. It’s better this way. When I’m drunk enough, I don’t think about Genny. I don’t feel the crushing weight of my failures.

At some point I emerge from my bedroom to find Mrs. Stewart standing in the living room, arms crossed over her chest, a scowl on her face.

“That’s quite enough, Mr. Sinclair,” she says sharply, her voice cutting through the fog in my brain.

I blink at her, trying to focus. “What?”

“You’ve been drinking yourself into oblivion for days now,” she says. “You’ve hardly eaten. You haven’t showered. And I’ve had enough of watching you destroy yourself.”

I try to summon the energy to remind her I’m her employer, not her wayward son. But the words won’t come. All I can seem to do is stare at her, swaying slightly on my feet.

“I’ve removed all the alcohol from the premises,” she continues, her tone brooking no argument. “And if you don’t pull yourself together, I’m calling your mother.”

That gets my attention. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me,” she says, lifting her chin. “I’ve worked for your family for thirty years. I watched you grow up. And I will not stand by while you drink yourself to death.”

“Now,” Mrs. Stewart’s voice gentles slightly, “I’ve run you a bath. You’re going to get cleaned up, eat something substantial, and then sleep it off. And tomorrow, you’re going to start acting like a human being again.”

I open my mouth to argue, but something in her expression stops me. It’s not just determination I see there; it‘s concern. Maybe even fear. And beneath my own misery, I feel a flicker of shame. What have I become, that my housekeeper is afraid for my life?

“Fine,” I mutter, turning toward the bathroom. I pause at the doorway, not looking back at her. “Thank you, Mrs. Stewart.”