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"No, I didn’t."
He merely stares at me over his shoulder.
Something in his gaze makes me reach for my phone and check my calendar.What the—!
"Exactly." He walks over and leans a hip against my desk. "You’ve been going to pieces."
"No I’m not."
"You also forgot poker night."
"I did?" I slump back in my seat. It’s been a week since my wife walked in on me smashing my fist into the wall of the bathroom—it’s intact, I didn’t even scratch the surface. I did suffer some lacerations on my knuckles. Apparently, I'm not even strong enough to put my fist through a wall. Although, to be fair, it's tile. What’s worse, though, is that I haven’t seen her since. Her preschool is doing well; more than well. It’s at full capacity, with a waitlist to get on the waitlist, or so my HR manager informed me.
I’ve tried to stay focused and attend my meetings and conference calls, but if you ask me what I did or said, I wouldn’t have a clue.
Every evening, I get home, and after making sure she’s eaten her dinner—my housekeeper has been instructed to keep meals ready and have them delivered to her room; she lets me know when she makes the delivery—I walk over to her room and stand in front of the door, hand raised and ready to knock.
But I never do. If I did, I’d be going back on the promise I made to myself to give her space. So, I stand there, knowing she's inside. Knowing she hasn’t moved out—the house staff have confirmed she’s there—but I never hear a sound from her room. I curl my fingers into a fist at my side to stop myself from beating down her door. I stop myself from insisting she open the door. I force myself to walk away because I'm done infringing on her personal boundaries.
Besides, what right do I have to have to talk to her or hold out hope for any kind of relationship when I haven’t been able to share my past with her? She deserves to know how tainted I am. She deserves to know I'm not worth her attention, in any form. She deserves so much more, and I can’t give it to her.
So, I content myself with the knowledge that she lives under my roof. She's my wife; nothing's changing that. Not even if she left me—which she hasn’t. And if I still believed in a force greater than myself, I'd thank that presence. But I don’t.
Instead, I bury myself in work… Or pretend to. But going by the fact I missed the meeting—which would have determined if I’m confirmed as the CEO—clearly, I'm not being successful at that, either.
Truth be told, I don’t care. I curl my fingers into a fist. Enough of this pretending otherwise.I. Don’t. Care. I don’t care if I'm no longer the CEO of this company. It doesn’t matter if Nathan takes over my role. I no longer have to pretend to care for the things that I thought I once did.
I loosen the tie around my collar.
"You okay?" Nathan frowns.
"Do I look like I’m okay?"
"You look like shit."
"You don’t look so hot, either." I scan the hollows under his cheekbones. Not that I give a fuck, or that I want to indulge in any kind of banter, but the man’s standing in my office with a furrow between his brows, and dark circles under his eyes. And clearly, spending time with my wife is rubbing off because I feel… I wouldn’t say a sense of empathy, but definitely a smidgen of understanding, toward the worry in his eyes.
"What’s wrong, didn’t the old man confirm you as his heir yet?"
He gives me a curious stare. "As a matter of fact, he didn’t."
"He didn’t?"
"He’s happy to keep the status quo going, with both you and me holding veto powers. He seems to think you need to be cut some slack, given you’re newly married and all."
"Is that right?" I stroke my chin.
"Seems he has a heart. So much so, he insists I should be the next to marry if I want to keep my veto power."
I chuckle, then turn it into a cough.
"Something funny?" he growls.
"Funny? Of course, not."
"I was thinking…" He looks uncomfortable. "Ah—" He clears his throat. "I was thinking you might dissuade him about this notion."
"You mean, about you getting married?"
