Chapter 3: What Was on the Screen
He sat down without being asked.
That was the first time in eleven years I had seen Ethan sit down in a room without choosing the best chair first.
He pulled the laptop closer.
His eyes moved across the screen slowly, then faster.
I poured two cups of coffee.
Set one in front of him.
He didn't touch it.
"This is your company," he said.
Not a question.
"Yes."
"Monroe Property Advisory." He said the name like he was testing whether it was real.
"You're the founder."
"I am."
He scrolled down.
Stopped.
Scrolled again.
"These are the revenue figures?"
"For last quarter, yes."
His jaw tightened.
"Maren, this is — this is more than I've made in the last four years combined."
"I know."
He pushed the laptop back slowly, like it had burned him.
He looked at the kitchen, the ceilings, the windows facing the back garden.
Then he looked at me the way someone looks at a stranger they thought they recognized.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I tried.
Early on.
You told me it was sweet that I wanted to feel useful."
He opened his mouth.
"You said it word for word, Ethan.
We were at your parents' house for Christmas.
Your mother had just asked me when I planned to stop playing at business and focus on giving you a son.
You laughed.
You said it was sweet that I wanted to feel useful."
The muscle in his jaw moved.
"That was years ago."
"It was.
And after that, I stopped telling you things."
He stood up.
Walked to the window.
Stood there with his back to me.
"The party," he said.
"The estate.
You knew I didn't own it."
"I've known for eight months.
The owner is a client of mine.
He told me Ethan Calloway had approached him about a short-term rental for an event.
He asked if I knew you." I paused.
"I told him you were my husband."
Ethan turned around.
"He gave you a discount," I said.
"As a courtesy to me.
You don't know that either."
The color left his face.
"So last night—"
"Last night your mother took food away from your daughters in front of ninety people.
And you told me not to make it a problem." I picked up my coffee.
"That was the last time."
He crossed back to the table.
His voice dropped.
"Maren.
Whatever you're thinking about doing — we can talk about this.
We can fix this."
"I'm not thinking about doing anything.
I've already done it."
He went still again.
"What does that mean?"
I looked at him steadily.
"It means I called my attorney three weeks ago.
It means the paperwork is already prepared.
It means I've been waiting for a reason to stop waiting."
He stared at me.
Then something shifted in his expression — not grief, not guilt.
Calculation.
"You can't be serious," he said slowly.
"After everything I've built — everything we have together — you're going to walk away over one bad night?"
"Eleven years of bad nights," I said.
"Last night just had an audience."
He pulled out his phone.
May you like
I didn't know who he was calling.
But I knew from the look on his face that whatever he was planning, he didn't intend to lose quietly.
