Page 56 of The Husband I Left

I feel a flare of irritation. “Actually,” I say, meeting my father’s gaze directly, “I’d love a drink. Thank you, Mother.”

My mother pauses, glancing between us again before continuing to the bar cart.

“You’ll be pleased to know,” I add, maintaining eye contact with my father, “that I haven’t had a drink yet today. Though after tonight, I’ll probably need one.”

My father’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. Anyone else would miss it, but I’ve spent a lifetime studying Thomas Sinclair’s expressions, trying to gauge his approval or displeasure. Right now, it‘s definitely displeasure.

My mother returns with a crystal tumbler filled with amber liquid. Her hand trembles slightly as she passes it to me, another sign that something is very wrong in the Sinclair household tonight.

“Thank you,” I say, taking a deliberate sip and savoring the burn as it slides down my throat. It’s the good stuff, of course. My father would never tolerate anything less than top-shelf liquor in his home.

We settle into an uncomfortable silence. My mother perches on the edge of the sofa again, while I take the armchair opposite my father. The fire crackles in the grate, shadows dancing across the room.

My father takes a sip of his drink, then sets it down on the mantel with a sharp click. “Members of the board have been contacting me,” he says without preamble. “They’re concerned about your continued fitness to lead the company.”

And there it is. No concern over my well-being, just straight to business. I shouldn’t be surprised.

“Let them fire me, then,” I say with a shrug, surprising even myself with how little I care.

My mother gasps, her hand flying to her throat. My father’s expression shifts, just barely, a momentary crack in his perfect facade. For a split second, I glimpse something that might almost be emotion before his features settle back into their usual stern lines.

“You can’t be serious,” he says, his voice low and dangerous.

“Actually, I am,” I reply, taking another sip of my drink.

“Oliver!” My mother’s voice is sharp with shock. “What has gotten into you?”

My father steps away from the fireplace, moving closer to me. “This is the company your grandfather founded,” he says, each word precise and measured. “I will not allow you to run it into the ground because you’re allowing your emotions to get the better of you.”

I feel something hot and ugly rising in my chest. “Is that what you think is happening? That I’m simply allowing my emotions to get the better of me?”

“What would you call it?” he fires back. “You’ve been drinking yourself into oblivion, neglecting your responsibilities, behaving erratically. When I handed the company over to you, I did it because I thought you were ready, that you would be mature enough—“

“Is that really why you handed over the company to me?” I interrupt, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “Or is it because you just wanted to have more time to spend with the woman that we all pretend you aren’t seeing on the side?”

The room goes completely silent. A soft gasp from the hallway tells me that even Frederick heard what I said. My father is frozen, his expression shocked. For once in his life, Thomas Sinclair doesn’t seem to know what to say.

My mother sets down her glass with a soft thunk, her hands shaking slightly, then takes a deep breath. Her face is pale, but her expression is unreadable. I wait for the explosion, the denial, the outrage.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, my mother smooths an invisible wrinkle from her dress and looks away, toward the window where darkness has settled over the perfectly manicured gardens. The silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating.

I run a hand over my face, shame washing over me in an icy wave. “I’m sorry,” I say finally, the words inadequate for the magnitude of my transgression. “That was unacceptable. I shouldn’t have said that.”

My father stares at me as if seeing a stranger. “What has happened to you?” he asks, and for the first time in my memory, he sounds bewildered rather than disappointed or angry.

My mother turns back towards me, her face devoid of all expression. “Is all this really over that girl leaving you?” she asks, her voice almost gentle despite the dismissive words. “Oliver, darling, I can introduce you to other women. Women who will be more suitable, who will be a better fit.”

The anger flares again, but this time it’s tinged with something else — pity, perhaps. Pity for my mother, who thinks following the rules, following the correct path, doing what’s expected of you is the answer to everything. Pity for myself that I once believed the same.

“Why?” I ask, suddenly very tired. “So I can spend the rest of my life in a marriage just like yours and Father’s?”

My mother blinks, taken aback. Then she straightens her shoulders and nods. “Well… yes.”

That answer, delivered with such certainty, makes my heart ache. I wonder if she’s ever known real happiness, real love. If she’s ever laughed until her sides hurt or felt so seen by another person that it made her want to weep. I wonder if she knows what she’s missing.

“I can’t wait,” I say, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice. “Sounds amazing.”