Page 61 of The Husband I Left

I stand up, uncertain what to do next. Now that I’ve made my declaration, now that I’ve been effectively disinherited, what happens?

As if he can read my thoughts, my father looks up. “You will need a job,” he says. “You have enough money to last for a while, but it is not inexhaustible. What are you planning to do?”

I shrug, hoping I look more confident than I feel. “I’ll figure it out.”

The look my father gives me is part disbelief, part exasperation. “That’s your plan? To ‘figure it out’?”

“I’ve led a multinational company with thousands of employees for years,” I point out. “How hard could deciding what to do next be?”

The corner of my father’s mouth twitches. “We’ll revisit this conversation later,” he says, “after you’ve had a chance to learn just how hard it can indeed be.”

Chapter 21

Oliver

The elevator doors glide open to reveal the executive floor of Sinclair Pharmaceuticals. As I step out, a hushed silence falls over the outer offices, and a few employees, Victoria among them, turn to stare at me. I can tell from the expressions on a few faces that rumors have started to make the rounds.

I stride towards my office, nodding at a few people as I pass. Behind me, I hear the whispers starting.

I don’t care.

It’s strange. A week ago, this would have set my teeth on edge. I would have read every averted gaze as judgment, every whisper as weakness, and I would have spent the rest of the day reasserting myself in a hundred small, sharp ways. Reminding everyone exactly whose name is on the building.

Today, I just feel light.

At my office door, I pause. This place has been my second home for years. Even when I was married to Genny, I spent more time here than at home. This office, with its floor-to-ceiling windows and view of the city, has been the backdrop to some of my greatest successes. The nameplate on the door — OLIVER SINCLAIR, CEO — is still up, though not for much longer. I take a deep breath and push the door open.

Inside, everything is exactly as I left it. For the first time, I realize I don’t have any personal items in here. No pictures, decorations, no nicknacks, nothing. At least the desk chair, which is made of Italian leather and is ridiculously comfortable, waits for me like an old friend.

Instead of sitting down, I stand at the window, looking out over Boston. The city sprawls before me, a maze of buildings and streets, and lives being lived. Finally, I move to the desk and sink into the chair, leaning back and putting my feet up on the polished surface. It’s not something I would have ever allowed myself to do before, when I was trying to live up to Thomas Sinclair’s expectations for his son.

I got the call from my father last night. He didn’t say much, just that Jeremy had accepted, and the board had been notified, and the transition would begin immediately. Which means that within the space of a month I will no longer have the corner office, or a driver, or a private jet that I can call on any time, day or night. I’ll still have more money than most people even dream of. But everything that made me Oliver Sinclair will be gone.

Suddenly the door opens with a bang. Victoria stands there, a cup of coffee in her hand, her face its usual thundercloud.

“I have no idea what you’re smiling about,” she says sharply. “While you were out on your bender, some of us were stuck here cleaning up your messes. You missed I don’t even want to think about how many meetings. The board is furious.”

She stomps into the room, thumping the coffee down onto my desk. It sloshes over the rim, spilling onto the desk, and as usual, she makes no move to wipe it up.

“I tried calling you, you know,” she continues. “But that housekeeper of yours wouldn’t tell me a thing. You picked a truly bad time to decide to have a mental breakdown.”

Instead of responding, I take a sip of coffee. It’s terrible as usual; too bitter, cold.

“Well, is it true?” Victoria demands, putting her hands on her hips.

I smile at her. “Is what true?” I ask pleasantly.

“Don’t play dumb, Oliver. It doesn’t suit you. The whole building is talking about it.”

“I’m not playing anything. You said the building is talking. I’m asking what the building is saying.” I take another sip of the horrible coffee. “Indulge me.”

She folds her arms and lifts her chin, and there’s just a little hint of glee in her expression that tells me she’s enjoying this. “People are saying you’ve been fired. That the board finally got sick of watching you fall apart and threw you out on your ass.” Yes, she is definitely enjoying this.

“Oh,” I say.

She waits. She lets out a huff when nothing else follows. “Oh? Is that all you have to say? Just Oh?”

“Well, the rumors are false,” I tell her. “I haven’t been fired.”