Page 55 of The Husband I Left

How different would things have been if, instead of simply buying her things, I’d recognized what a treasure I’d had and just loved her? If I’d let go of my anger towards my father and Victoria. If I’d recognized it for what it was, wounded pride? What if I’d offered Genny a marriage not of wealth or status, but of partnership? Of love that didn’t hinge on what she could be or become, but on who she already was?

The questions haunt me all the way back to the penthouse. The elevator doors open and I walk in, lost in thought, only to find my mother sitting in the living room, her back straight as an arrow.

“Well,” she says, looking me up and down with barely concealed disapproval, “it’s nice to see you doing something other than drinking yourself to death.”

I shrug out of my coat, tossing it over the back of the couch. “What do you want?”

“Is that any way to greet your mother?” she asks, but the question is rhetorical. She doesn’t wait for an answer before continuing. “Your father wants to speak with you.”

I don’t reply; instead; I walk to the kitchen. I need water, and maybe something to eat. The walk has left me surprisingly hungry. “I’m sure he does.”

“This isn’t a request, Oliver,” she says, her voice sharpening. “He’s hearing things that have him very concerned. You’re to be at dinner tomorrow night. Seven o’clock. And for God’s sake, make sure you’re sober.”

I turn back to face her, studying her for a moment. My mother has always been a force of nature, imposing her will on everyone around her. Including Genny. Including me.

“Fine,” I say finally. “I’ll be there.”

She looks surprised at my easy acquiescence, but quickly masks it with a nod. “Good. Don’t be late.”

She rises to leave, pausing as she passes me. For a moment, I think she might say something. But she just pats my arm once and continues to the door.

It closes behind her, and I’m left alone in the middle of my empty penthouse, thinking about the young couple in the park. About Genny. About all the things I should have said but didn‘t.

Chapter 18

Oliver

The front door of my parent’s mansion opens before I can even ring the bell. Frederick greets me with a smile. He’s known me since I was in diapers, has seen every version of Oliver Sinclair from precocious child to rebellious teenager to successful CEO. Now he’s witnessing this new iteration: divorced and much much smaller.

“Mr. Oliver,” he says, taking my coat. “It’s good to see you.”

I can hear the concern in his voice, see it in the way his eyes linger on my face, checking for signs of intoxication, I’m sure. I give him what I hope is a reassuring smile.

“They’re in the sitting room,” Frederick tells me. Something in his tone makes me pause.

“Everything alright, Frederick?”

He hesitates, brushing a minuscule speck of lint from his otherwise immaculate suit coat. “Things have been… tense today.”

Great. Just what I need. I nod my thanks and steel myself as I head toward the sitting room. The house is silent except for the sound of my shoes on the marble floor. Every step feels like I’m walking toward an execution.

I pause in the doorway, taking in the scene. My mother sits on the edge of the sofa, her back ramrod straight, hands clasped tightly in her lap. She’s wearing a pale blue dress that makes her look washed out, or maybe that’s just the tension tightening her features. My father stands by the fireplace, one hand resting on the mantel, the other holding a tumbler of what I assume is his usual scotch. They both turn to look at me, and for a moment, no one speaks.

My mother breaks first, rising to her feet with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Oliver, darling. Right on time.”

She crosses the room to kiss my cheek, and I catch the scent of her perfume; the same one she’s worn for as long as I can remember. It takes me back to childhood bedtimes when she would bend to kiss me goodnight, always careful not to smudge her makeup.

“Mother,” I say, returning the kiss automatically. “You look well.”

My father doesn’t move from his position by the fireplace. “Son,” he says with a slight nod. His face betrays nothing, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers grip his glass a little too tightly.

“Father,” I return the nod, matching his cool tone.

My mother’s eyes dart between us, and I realize that she’s nervous. Nancy Sinclair is never nervous. She orchestrates charity galas and corporate events with the precision of a military general. She navigates Boston’s high society with effortless grace. But right now, she looks nervous in a way I haven’t seen since, well, since that brief time five months ago when we weren’t sure what stunt Genny was going to pull next.

“Can I get you a drink, darling?” She asks, already moving toward the bar cart in the corner of the room.

“I think Oliver’s had quite enough to drink lately,” my father says before I can answer.