Chapter 8: Everything She Came to Finish
I stood up.
David stood up at the same time.
"I'll go," he said.
"No." I set my coffee down.
"I will."
Beatrice was in the corridor, dressed and composed, a small leather handbag over one arm.
She looked like she'd been up for hours.
She probably had.
"Good morning," she said.
"I'd like to speak with David."
"David is with the children," I said.
"You can speak with me."
Her expression didn't change.
"I'd prefer—"
"I know what you'd prefer, Beatrice." I stepped into the corridor and let the door close behind me.
"You've preferred a lot of things on this trip.
The suite.
David's ear.
Six weeks of my husband's doubt.
But this morning, you get me."
She looked at me with the particular stillness of someone recalculating.
"I only want what's best for my son," she said.
"Then you should have stayed home."
"He was unhappy, Claire.
You can't pretend you didn't know that."
"He was tired," I said.
"We both were.
That's different from what you told him."
Something shifted behind her eyes.
"I showed him the truth."
"You showed him edited screenshots of my messages with a colleague and let him draw the conclusion you'd already decided on." I kept my voice level.
"That's not truth.
That's a setup."
"Those messages—"
"Were between me and a man who is now engaged to someone else, who I worked with professionally, and who I have never been anything other than a colleague to." I held her gaze.
"You know that.
You read the full conversations.
You chose which parts to cut."
Her chin lifted slightly.
"I was protecting my son."
"From what?
From a marriage that was working until you decided it wasn't?
From a wife who has spent twelve years raising his children, running his home, and standing beside him?" My voice stayed quiet.
It was easier that way.
"You weren't protecting him, Beatrice.
You were trying to end his marriage.
And I want to know why."
"That's a very dramatic—"
"Did you go through my phone more than once?"
She didn't answer.
"David told me he gave you access once.
But those screenshots span eight months of messages.
One afternoon isn't enough time to find and photograph that many exchanges." I watched her face.
"You had his passcode.
You went through my phone multiple times.
Possibly at our house, when you visited."
Her jaw tightened.
"I want you to hear me clearly," I said.
"When we get home, I will be changing every password on every device.
I will be speaking to a solicitor about what you did.
And I will be having a very direct conversation with David about the boundaries of your involvement in our marriage going forward."
"You can't keep him from his mother—"
"I'm not keeping him from anything.
I'm keeping him informed." I took a breath.
"But I need you to understand something.
Whatever you were hoping would happen on this trip — it didn't happen.
David and I talked last night.
We talked this morning.
We're not done, but we're talking.
And that is the opposite of what you came here to achieve."
Beatrice was very still.
Then she said, quietly: "You think you've won something."
"I think I've had a conversation with my husband," I said.
"That's all."
Her hand tightened on her handbag strap.
"He'll come back to me," she said.
"He always does.
Whatever you think you've built with him, I was there first.
I know him in ways you never will."
"You're his mother," I said.
"Not his wife.
There's a difference.
And I think, somewhere, you've always struggled with that."
Her face went very still.
I turned and opened the door.
"I'll have the front desk arrange a car to the airport," I said.
"If you'd like to leave today, I'm happy to help with that."
I went back inside.
David was standing just inside the door.
He had heard everything.
His face was pale.
"How long has she been like this?" I asked.
He didn't answer for a moment.
May you like
"A long time," he said.
"I just didn't want to see it."
