Page 63 of The Husband I Left

For a moment, I don’t move. I don’t speak. I just look up at her, and I let every trace of pleasantness drain out of my face, let the smile go, let the warmth go, until there’s nothing left in my expression at all.

Victoria’s smile wavers. Good.

“Victoria,” I say calmly. “Let’s talk about your father for a moment.”

She goes still.

“Your family would very much like to believe that the unpleasant circumstances surrounding his departure from Apex were handled discreetly and kept private. And for the most part, they were. He was allowed to leave quietly, and a story was spread that he was downsizing and retiring to the country due to health concerns. It was a very convincing story. Most of Boston still believes it.” I stop for a minute, study her face. “I, however, know that it was just a story, Victoria. And I know exactly how to make that story fall apart. I know exactly how to set its destruction in motion. I know which reporters have been sniffing around for years.”

“You wouldn’t,” she whispers.

I lean forward slowly, resting my forearms on the desk, and lower my voice. “I would. If I hear even a whisper about Genny, about my marriage, about any of it, I will. And I will personally make sure your father knows that you are the reason all of it is being brought down on his head. And we both know how he’ll react to that, don’t we?”

Her face goes blank, and she swallows hard. She looks at me for a long time. Then she nods once, a small, stiff jerk of her chin.

“I’m glad we understand each other,” I lean back in my chair and smile at her again. “HR is waiting for you. They’re going to offer you a very generous severance package. It’s more than you deserve if I’m being completely honest. You are going to sign whatever it is that they want you to sign and then you are going to go away.”

Victoria turns and walks toward the door. Just before she turns the knob, however, she turns back around to face me.

“Oliver.”

I look up.

“Why?” she asks. She doesn’t look angry anymore. She just looks confused. “Just why?” she asks again. “Why on earth would you just quit? Give up everything? The company, the money, all of it. Why would you do that?”

I don’t answer right away. I’m not sure how to put it into words that would make sense to her.

“For her,” Victoria says slowly, working it out loud. “For Genny.” She looks completely baffled by this. “You’re seriously giving this all up for her?”

“It would seem,” I say, “that I’ve found the one thing worth sacrificing everything else for.”

Victoria stares at me for a moment. “I don’t understand you,” she finally says.

“I know,” I say. “I’m only just starting to understand myself.”

She turns and opens the door. As she steps out, I hear a quiet, “Ms. Warren? I’m Alison from HR. If you could come with me, please…”

I close my eyes, savoring the moment. It’s the first step in what’s going to be a long journey. I’ve spent my entire life being Oliver Sinclair, heir to the Sinclair fortune. I have no idea who I am without those things. But I’m excited to find out.

A minute later, the door opens again. I open my eyes to see Jeremy standing in the doorway, looking around my office with wide eyes.

“Well,” he says, giving a low whistle. “It’s hard to believe you’re giving all of this up.”

I stand, crossing to where he stands, and clap him on the shoulder. “Trust me, Jeremy. I’m not giving up anything that matters.”

Chapter 22

Genny

I fumble with my keys at the apartment door, feet aching, brain fried. As I enter my apartment, the building’s ancient heating system kicks on with a groan. I close my door and lean my head against the cool wood for a moment before kicking off my shoes and hanging up my coat and purse.

My tiny apartment is nothing like the penthouse. It’s tiny and my neighbors are all retirees who keep trying to set me up with their grandsons. I am pretty sure I am the only person under the age of sixty who lives in this building. The pipes rattle and the shower takes forever to get hot. There’s no floor-to-ceiling windows, no marble countertops, no walk-in closets. But it’s mine. I paid the first and last month’s rent myself, with money I earned from my actual job. Some people might call it a downgrade. I call it freedom.

My couch welcomes me with open arms. I picked it up second-hand. It’s no attractive in any way. It’s probably as old as I am and very, very floral. But it’s also one of the most comfortable couches I’ve ever sat on. I collapse onto it now, wiggling toes that are rejoicing to be free of my sensible shoes. The apartment is quiet, my evening stretches in front of me, and it’s in moments like that I have to admit that I miss Oliver.

I don’t miss being married to Oliver Sinclair, heir to the Sinclair fortune. I don’t miss his mother, with her constant “suggestions“ about my appearance and demeanor. I don’t miss the endless society events where I was expected to stand at Oliver’s side like a mannequin, nodding and smiling at people who’d known each other since prep school. I don’t miss the gilded prison of the penthouse, which never quite felt like my home. I don’t miss the way he’d be barely present for days or even weeks at a time, the way our domestic schedule was just expected to mold itself around his work schedule.

But sometimes I miss Oliver. The way I would sometimes catch him watching me with a soft smile on his face. The times when he would decide to ignore his empire and whisk me off on an adventure. The very rare times he’d let his guard down, and I got to see the man behind the suit.