Not yours to lose, ex-husband.

Chapter 7

Roxanne's POV

I wake up to the sunlight sneaking through the curtains, and for a blissful moment, I'm not in touch with reality. Then it all comes rushing back, the incident from last night.

I sigh and look around, I'm in Lennox's guest room. The digital clock on the nightstand reads 8:47 AM. I've slept for almost ten hours, yet it feels like I haven't slept at all.

My body feels heavy, weighed down by not just exhaustion but the tiny being growing in me. I guess this is the part of pregnancy no one can really explain—you just have to experience it for yourself.

I push myself up, and immediately regret it. My stomach twists violently, and I barely make it to the bathroom before I'm retching over the toilet. Nothing comes up except bile, but my body doesn't seem to care. It just keeps whining and trying to force whatever it is in my stomach up my throat.

A soft knock sounds at the door.

"Roxanne? You okay in there?"

I flush the toilet and rinse my mouth thoroughly before responding “I’m fine,” though we both know it's a lie.

When I finally emerge, Lennox is standing in the doorway with a plate of crackers and glass of ginger ale. He looks awkward, holding them, like he's not quite sure what to do. Poor Lennox, I feel sorry for turning this intelligent PR strategist to a nervous and clueless man because of my state.

“I googled it,” he admits sheepishly. “Apparently, this helps with morning sickness.”

Despite how shitty I feel, I muster a smile. “You googled it?”

“Don't judge me. I've never dealt with a pregnant woman before.” He sets the items on the nightstand. “Take your time. No rush.”

I nod and grab a cracker, surprisingly, it helps. The nausea stops to a manageable level, enough that I can stand without feeling like I'm going to faint. The ginger seems cold and soothing, washing away the bitter taste in my mouth.

"Thank you," I whisper, and I mean it for more than just the crackers and ginger ale.

He nods, understanding everything I'm not saying. “I'll be in the kitchen when you're ready.”

Minutes later, I'm showered and dressed in another of Lennox's borrowed clothes. This time a gray sweater and black joggers I have to fold at the waist.

I find him in the kitchen, the smell of coffee and scrambled eggs making my stomach turn slightly, but not as before.

“Sit,” he beckons, pulling a chair at the island. “You need to eat.”

I obey because I don't have the energy to argue. He serves me eggs and toasts, with a bowl of freshly cut fruits. Then he sits across from me, his own plate untouched as he watch me eat.

"You're not eating?" I ask.

“I already had coffee. That's enough for me.” He taps his fingers on the counter, a nervous gesture I have come to recognize too well whenever he wants to breach a topic likely not to sit well with me.

I pause, setting my fork down. “Spill.”

“So I've been thinking about all that happened yesterday, and I think it's high time you start building yourself back. You know, go back to the one thing that makes you genuinely happy.”

He pauses to watch my reaction, and when I give none, he resumes talking. "I've been talking to my architect friend, Isaiah Reid. Remember him from the hospital?"

I nod. Who wouldn't? He has quite the presence that never goes unnoticed.

Lennox pushes his tablet across the table. “He specializes in modern art spaces. Galleries, museums, exhibition halls, you name it. He has done work all over the world. Paris, New York, Tokyo. He's really good.”

I stare at the screen, at the portfolio. It is filled with stunning designs. One catches my eye: a converted warehouse with massive skylights and white walls.

“Why are you showing me this?” I ask, even though part of me already knows.

“Because I want to contact him to design a gallery for you. You need to go back to being you. This is not you, Roxanne. I want you back in your element, where you can paint again, and be Roxanne the artist, not just Roxanne the wife.”

My chest tightens. And for a moment, I let myself imagine it, walking into a gallery with my name above the door, my paintings on the wall, and people trooping in to admire my work.

I imagine the smell of fresh paint, the feeling of a brush in my hand, and the absolute thrill of creating something from nothing. But I regain myself, shaking the thought off.

"Lennox…”

“Just think about it,” he quickly interrupts, blocking the answer he knows too well. “You don't have to decide now. But you deserve this, Roxanne. You deserve to create again. To be seen for not just being a wife, but a creative.”

I want to say yes. Heavens, I want to say it so badly. The words are right there, dangling on my tongue, begging to be let out. But they stay stuck, trapped behind years of conditioning myself that painting is just a hobby, and my real job is being a wife.

“I can't,” I finally say. “I can't, Lennox. I'm married, and it's for better or worse. I took vows, remember?”

His expression hardens, looking displeased. “Well, this looks like worse to me, Roxanne.”

“I can't just…I need to speak to Reese. We can fix this. Once he calms down, once he sees the ultrasound, once that woman is out of the picture, he'll understand. Marriage is work, right? It's not supposed to be easy all the time.”

Even as I say the words, they sound empty. Like I'm trying to convince myself more than him.

However he doesn't argue. He doesn't tell me I'm delusional or stupid. But his eyes speak volume as usual. They say “you're lying to yourself.” “You deserve better.” “Wake up before it's too late.”

I look away because I can't bear to see the pity there. Or even worse, the truth.

“Just think about it,” his tone softens as he reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. “The offer stands until you're ready. A week, month, or even a year. It will be waiting.”

I nod, but we both know I won't take him up on the offer. I can't. Not when there's still a chance that Reese will come to his senses. Not while I'm still clinging to the feeble hope that my marriage isn't completely over, despite his threat last night.

My phone rings at that moment, and I reach for it expecting to see Reese's name on the screen. Maybe he's calling to apologize. Who knows, he might have spent the night thinking everything through and realized what an i***t he's been?!Maybe Camilla finally left and he sees clearly now.

But it's not Reese's number, I realize in disappointment. It's a number I don't recognize.

I answer warily. “Hello?”

“Mrs Beaumont?” A sharp, professional voice fills my ear. “This is Benson and Associates. We have documents to deliver to you regarding your marriage. Are you available to receive them today?”

I sit up, suddenly feeling uneasy. Documents? What documents?

“What kind of documents?”

“I'm not at liberty to discuss the details over the phone, Ma'am. But they require your signature. When would be a convenient time for delivery?”

My pulse quickens as I sense that something is not right. Across the table, Lennox is watching me, concern visible on his face.

"What kind of documents?" I repeat, this time louder. "You need to tell me what this is about."

There's a brief pause like she's considering my request, then I hear papers shuffling and the sound of someone typing before her voice comes up again.

“Divorce papers, Mrs Beaumont. Your husband, Reese Beaumont, has filed for divorce…”