The Divorced Billionaire's Lullaby

Emily sat at the edge of the dining table, watching the candles in front of her burn down to nothing. Her fingers traced the rim of her wine glass as she watched the last of the flames sputter and die. The wax had pooled into misshapen puddles on the silver candlesticks, and the faint smell of smoke mingled with the aroma of seared steak and roasted vegetables. She'd made his favorite meal and set the table with the china they'd received as a wedding gift. The one he'd never once used. Tonight was her third wedding anniversary with James, and she was putting on the dress he'd bought her for their first anniversary, a deep emerald green that hugged her waist and fell just above her knees. She glanced at the clock on the mantel again for the 10th time. Eleven forty-seven but he wasn't home yet. The anniversary dinner she'd spent all afternoon preparing sat untouched. The candles she'd lit with trembling hands were gone now, and had become nothing but melted stubs drowning in pools of wax. The song she'd written carefully for him, and rehearsed until her voice went raw, would never be sung. Her back ached, and so did her neck. She'd been sitting in this chair for so long that her bones had started to protest. Emily pushed her chair back and walked to the window. Outside, the city glittered like scattered diamonds against the velvet black of the night sky. She pressed her palm into the cold glass and watched her breath fog the surface. For three years she'd been the perfect wife, the woman who never asked for anything, making sure she never made James upset. She abandoned her music and her dreams. She'd abandoned the woman she used to be, all because James Whitmore had looked at her with warm eyes and made her feel seen and worthy of love. She had never regretted taking that decision. Not for once. He had looked at her like she mattered, and she'd given him everything. Tonight was supposed to be their special moment together, but he wasn't home yet. This morning he had promised he would be home early, but here she was alone on the night of their anniversary. She pulled out her phone and opened the app that tracked his location. A security feature, he had said, was for her safety. She typed in her password with numb fingers and watched the little red dot blink on the screen. It was at the Ritz-Carlton, but that was not his office nor the club he visited sometimes. It was a hotel across town. Something cold settled in her stomach. Her mind suddenly splits into different thoughts. Her gaze stayed too long on her screen, trying to make sense of why he was in a hotel. She tried to stay calm and told herself she was being paranoid. James was a busy man, he probably had a late meeting and decided to stay in the city. The app must be wrong, there has to be a reasonable explanation. But her hands were shaking as she grabbed her coat. Her feet were moving before her brain caught up, carrying her out the door and down the marble steps of the mansion. The night air hit her face, cool and sharp, and she breathed it in like a drowning woman gasping for air. She waved a cab and entered without a second thought. Emily stared out the window, watching the city slide past with her reflection a ghost in the glass. She didn't know what she was looking for. Maybe she needed to prove herself wrong, or maybe she needed to see with her own eyes that her husband was exactly where he was supposed to be, doing exactly what he was supposed to be doing. The hotel rose before her like a monument to everything she'd never had. The rain had started as a drizzle, but by the time the cab pulled into the hotel parking lot, it hammered against the windshield like impatient fingers. She stepped out, sneakers splashing through puddles that soaked her socks instantly. The air smelled of wet asphalt and distant fried food from the diner across the street. Her keys dug into her palm as she crossed the lot, hood pulled low, breath fogging in the chill. The hotel was one of those mid-tier places with flickering neon letters and a lobby that smelled faintly of bleach and old carpet. The lobby was all polished marble and crystal chandeliers, and Emily felt like an intruder in her worn wet coat and the dress that had once made her feel beautiful. She walked past the concierge with her head held high, pretending she belonged there, pretending her heart wasn't pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears. She followed the app to the restaurant. Through the frosted glass doors, she could see candlelight and couples leaning into each other, their laughter muffled by the soft hum of piano music. She pressed her hand to the glass and peered inside. The little red dot on the app pulsed steadily inside the building ahead. Room 105. She’d checked it twice, her thumb numb from refreshing the screen. His location services are still on, like always. Room 105 was on the first floor, around the side. She found it easily, the brass numbers dull under a buzzing security light. Her heart thudded so hard she could feel it in her teeth. From inside came the low murmur of a man’s voice. James’s voice, that familiar rumble she’d fallen asleep to for three years, followed by a woman’s laugh, breathy and sharp. Then a moan, unmistakable, rising and falling like a wave she couldn’t outrun. Emily’s hand hovered over the doorknob. It was cool, slightly slick from the rain that had dripped from her sleeve. She turned it slowly, the mechanism clicking softly. The door eased open a few inches without resistance. They hadn’t locked it. Of course, they hadn’t. The room was dim, lit only by a single lamp on the nightstand. Clothes lay scattered across the thin carpet like wreckage: James’s navy dress pants crumpled near the door, a black lace bra hooked over the arm of a chair, her red silk blouse tangled with his white shirt. The air inside was warm and musky, laced with the sharp bite of perfume and sweat. The bed creaked rhythmically. James was there, his bare back to her, muscles shifting as he moved over the woman beneath him. The woman’s legs were wrapped around his waist, red-painted toes curling. Her head was thrown back against the pillows, dark hair fanned out, mouth open in another low moan that cut through Emily like a blade. James’s hand gripped the headboard, the wedding band she’d slipped on his finger, catching the lamplight for a split second. Emily stood frozen in the doorway, rain dripping from her coat onto the carpet with soft, pathetic plops. Her lungs forgot how to work as the sounds filled her head. Skin against skin, the wet slide of bodies, James’s low grunt that used to mean comfort and home. Now it just sounded foreign. Animal. She should have screamed. Should have thrown something. Instead, her body felt hollowed out, as if someone had scooped everything vital from her chest and left only cold air. Her vision blurred at the edges. She tasted metal at the back of her tongue. Neither of them noticed her. The woman’s nails dragged down James’s back, leaving faint red lines. He buried his face in her neck, murmuring something too quiet for Emily to catch. She pulled the door shut as quietly as she’d opened it. The latch clicked like a period at the end of a sentence she never wanted to read. The drive home was a blur of wet streets and red traffic lights. Her phone shook in her hands, but the tears didn’t come until the cab pulled into their driveway. Inside, the familiar smell of their home hit the faint trace of James’s cologne on the coat hook. The mansion was dark and silent. She walked through the foyer, past the marble table where she'd placed fresh flowers that morning, past the mirror where she'd checked her reflection before he was supposed to come home. She looked at her reflection now, really looked, and saw a stranger looking back. Hollow eyes with pale skin. She walked to the dining room. The candles were dead, and the food had become cold. The dress she'd worn to make him remember her was just a green dress now, nothing special and meaningful. She picked up her wine glass and hurled it against the wall. It shattered into a thousand pieces, glittering like the diamonds in the city skyline, and Emily sank to her knees among the shards and finally, finally let herself break. She couldn't cry. The tears were there, burning behind her eyes, but they wouldn't come. She'd been holding them back for so long that she'd forgotten how to let them fall. She knelt on the cold marble floor, surrounded by broken glass, and let the silence wrap around her like a shroud. She kicked off her wet shoes and walked straight to the bedroom, leaving damp footprints on the hardwood. The bed was still unmade from this morning, James' side rumpled where he’d rolled out of it. Elena sat on the edge as her fingers traced the indentation his head had left on the pillow. Her chest ached with a pain so deep it felt physical, like something tearing slowly along old seams. She curled onto her side, pulling his pillow against her face, breathing in the scent of him. The sobs broke free, raw ugly sounds that echoed off the walls and filled the empty house and finally came the tears. She cried until her throat burned, and her eyes swelled shut, the rain tapping softly against the window like it was trying to get in. She stayed there for a long time. The clock on the mantel ticked past midnight. The heat in the house clicked on with a soft hum. Somewhere in the distance, a car drove past, its headlights sweeping across the windows like searchlights. She reached for her phone, the screen lit up. It was already 5am in the morning. She had cried herself to sleep. She should get up and clean up, but she remained still. She stayed on the bed until the numbness faded and the anger came. Slow and cold like ice spreading through her veins. Emily's fingers trembled as she dialed Sophie's number. The screen blurred through her tears, and she had to blink twice to make the digits focus. She pressed the phone to her ear, listening to the hollow ring on the other end. "Emy?" Sophie's voice was groggy, thick with sleep. "It's five in the morning. Are you okay? What's wrong?" Emily opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her jaw trembled. The words were there, pressing against the back of her throat, but they wouldn't come out. She could hear Sophie shifting on the other end of the line, could imagine her sitting up in bed, pushing her dark hair out of her face, her eyes sharpening with alarm. "Emily. Talk to me. You're scaring me." The sob escaped before she could stop it. A raw, broken sound that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than her chest. She clapped her hand over her mouth, but it was too late. Sophie had heard. "Emmy. Emmy, what happened? Is it James? Did he hurt you? I swear to God, if he laid a hand on you…" "No." Emily choked out. The word was barely a whisper. "He didn't... he didn't hit me. It's... it's worse than that." "Worse than what? Emy, you're scaring me. Just tell me what happened." Emily pressed her forehead against her knees, the phone cold against her ear. She could still hear the sounds from the hotel room. The creaking bed. The wet slide of bodies. The woman's moans and James's low grunt. “I'm going to divorce James.” The words finally came out. “What… how? Why? When?” Sophie's eyes widened over the call. The hum of a car entering the mansion interrupted Emily before she could say one more word. He's back. The garage door groaned open below. Emily's blood went cold. She looked down at herself, the tear-streaked face in the mirror, the damp dress, the mascara that had bled down her cheeks like dark tears. She couldn't let him see her like this. Couldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing. "Sophie, I have to go." She ended the call by shaking fingers. The bedroom door was closed, but it was too late. She heard his footsteps in the foyer. He was home. She was still there, wearing the dress she'd prepared for their anniversary, still smelling like rain and tears and the faint trace of another Woman's perfume that must have clung to her skin. He can't see me like this. But the door was already opening.