The Weekend In-Between
1724 Words
Friday morning started with a sound Elena didn't expect. Laughter. Coming from the kitchen.
She stood in her doorway for maybe thirty seconds trying to place it. Alex's voice. Low. Talking on the phone. Not the clipped tones he used for business. Something softer. Almost human.
She moved down the hall. Didn't mean to eavesdrop. Feet just went that direction.
"No, I can't do Tuesday." Pause. Sound of coffee pouring. "Grandfather wants Sunday dinner. Every Sunday apparently." Another pause. Longer. "I know what that means, Victoria. I'm not an idiot."
Elena stepped back. Returned to her room. Closed the door. Sat on the edge of the bed.
The laughter had stopped while she was listening. Now there was just silence and the occasional clink of dishes. Normal sounds. Domestic sounds. Sounds that didn't match two people living together under a contract with an expiration date.
Her phone buzzed. Sarah. Text message.
How's the penthouse? Still alive?
Elena typed back. Alive. Heated floors. Broken coffee maker. Same as anywhere.
Heated floors? Show off.
Not mine. Can't take them with me when I leave.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Sarah was typing something real. Then deleting it. Then typing again.
Just be careful. Rich people don't lose the same way we do.
Elena set the phone down. Screen face up. The message stayed there. Words glowing against black glass.
Alex knocked on her door at noon. Actual knock. Three taps. Waited for permission.
"Come in," she called. Didn't know why she said it. Could have ignored him.
He pushed the door open. Stood in the frame. Didn't enter. Hair still damp from shower. Wore jeans and a gray t-shirt that looked like it had been washed too many times. Faded at the shoulders.
"Lunch," he said. "There's a place downstairs. Or I can order."
"I'm not hungry."
"You haven't eaten since yesterday." He glanced at the nightstand. Empty water glass from last night. Phone. Ring box she'd bought herself three years ago before any of this. "Margaret said you skip meals when you're anxious."
"Margaret talks about me?"
"Margaret reports to me. About everything." He shifted weight. One hand in his pocket. "It's her job."
Elena stood. Walked past him into the hallway. Close enough that her arm brushed his shirt. Cotton. Soft. Cheap compared to his suits. Human compared to everything else.
"Downstairs is fine," she said. "I want to see the neighborhood. Since I live here now apparently."
The restaurant was on the ground floor. Same building. Different entrance. Elena hadn't noticed it during her comings and goings. Door was wood. Heavy. Handle brass. Someone polished it regularly.
Inside, the host knew Alex. Didn't use his name. Just nodded and led them to a corner table. Away from other diners. Privacy without asking.
Menu had no prices. Elena noticed immediately. Guest menus showed numbers. Alex's menu showed nothing. She set hers down. Pushed it slightly toward the center of the table.
"Order whatever," Alex said. Noticed the gesture. Didn't comment. "It's already paid for."
"Monthly membership?"
"Something like that."
A waiter appeared. Young. Nervous. Kept glancing at Alex like he recognized him but wasn't sure. Took their order. Hands shook slightly when writing. Pen slipped on the pad. Left a small ink mark on his thumb.
When he left, Elena watched him navigate around other tables. Carrying two waters. Spilled a drop near table four. Didn't notice. Kept walking.
"You come here often?" she asked.
"Twice a week. Sometimes more." Alex unfolded his napkin. Set it on his lap. Precise movements. "It's quiet. Nobody takes photos."
"Because they're afraid?"
"Because they know better."
The food arrived. Pasta for her. Fish for him. Everything looked arranged. Not beautiful. Just... intentional. Like someone had placed each piece with tweezers.
Elena picked up her fork. Put it down. Picked it up again. The metal was cold. Warmed slowly in her hand.
"About Sunday," she said. Ate a bite. Chewed. Swallowed. Food tasted like salt and nothing else. "Victoria texted. Said Jessica will be there."
Alex's fork paused halfway to his mouth. He set it down. Napkin stayed clean.
"Jessica's always at Sunday dinners."
"Since when?"
"Since she and my father started their partnership. Five years." He picked up his water. Drank. Glass empty when he set it down. "She uses it to maintain access. To the family. To me."
"And your grandfather allows it?"
"My grandfather allows anything that keeps the bloodline pure." His voice was flat. No emotion. Just statement of fact. "She's not suitable. But she's available. There's a difference."
Elena's fork scraped against the plate. Loud sound. Other diners glanced over. Looked away quickly.
"So I'm what? The alternative?"
"You're the solution." He met her eyes. Didn't look away. "There's a difference."
They ate in silence after that. Forks against plates. Glasses being filled. Sounds of other people having normal conversations about normal things. Weather. Work. Weekend plans.
Nothing about immigration interviews or fake engagements or contracts with exit clauses.
Saturday passed slowly. The kind of slow that happens when you're waiting for something unavoidable.
Elena cleaned things that didn't need cleaning. Bathroom counter. Already spotless. Kitchen cabinets. No fingerprints. Living room shelves. Nothing on them except art books nobody would read.
Alex worked from home. She could hear him in his office. Voice through the wall. Phone calls. Video meetings. Occasionally the sound of something being thrown against wood. Stress relief or anger. Hard to distinguish.
At three PM, she found a package by the door. No return address. Her name handwritten on the label. Handwriting she didn't recognize.
She brought it inside. Set it on the kitchen counter. Stared at it for maybe five minutes before cutting the tape.
Inside: a photo. Framed. Alex and Jessica. Five years ago probably. Younger. Standing on a beach somewhere. His arm around her waist. Her head on his shoulder. Both smiling like they meant it.
No note. No explanation. Just the photo wrapped in tissue paper and delivered to a building with twenty-four hour security.
Elena held it. Turned it over. Back was blank. No studio mark. No date. Nothing to trace.
She set it on the counter. Face up. Made tea. Stood at the window. Watched the photo while the water heated.
When the tea was ready, she poured it. Added honey. Stirred. Carried the mug back to the counter.
Picked up the photo again. Looked at Alex's face. He looked different. Softer. Less tired. Like exhaustion hadn't settled into his bones yet.
She opened a drawer. Put the photo inside. Closed it. Didn't know why she kept it. Didn't know why she didn't throw it away.
Alex found her there at six PM. Still standing at the counter. Tea cold now. Untouched for hours.
"What's wrong?" He noticed immediately. Like he could smell trouble.
"Package came." Elena didn't turn around. Kept looking at the drawer. "No return address."
He walked to the counter. Opened the drawer. Saw the photo. Didn't touch it.
"She sent this before," he said. Quiet. "Last year. Same thing. Different photo."
"And you kept it?"
"I filed it. With my lawyer." He closed the drawer. "Harassment documentation. In case it escalates."
Elena turned to face him. Mug in her hands. Ceramic warm against her palms.
"Does it escalate?"
"Sometimes." He leaned back against the counter. Arms crossed. Shirt pulled tight across his chest. Small stain near the collar. Coffee maybe. From this morning. Hadn't changed. "She wants what she thinks is hers. When she can't have it, she makes sure nobody else does either."
"Charming."
"Sterling family trait." He pushed off the counter. Walked toward her. Stopped close enough that she could see the tired around his eyes. Actual lines. Not shadows. "Sunday will be fine."
"You don't know that."
"I know my grandfather wants this to work. More than he wants Jessica. Business partnerships are replaceable. Heirs aren't."
Elena set the mug down. Sink had a small chip near the drain. White porcelain showing through stainless. She traced it with her thumbnail.
"And what do you want?"
Alex was quiet. Long enough that she thought he wouldn't answer. Outside, a siren passed. Getting closer. Then farther. New York breathing its normal breath.
"I want this to be over."
"The contract?"
"The pretending." He lifted his hand. Like he might touch her face. Stopped halfway. Let it fall. "Six months is a long time to perform."
"We signed up for it."
"I signed up for it." He corrected. Quiet. "You signed up because you had no options."
"That's not—"
"It is." He walked away. Toward his office. Stopped at the doorway. Didn't turn around. "Dinner is at seven. Order whatever you want. I'll pay."
Then he was gone. Door closed. Lock clicked. Same sound as every other night.
Elena stood at the counter. Mug cold between her hands. Drawer with the photo behind her. Sunday ahead. Twenty-two more after that.
Or not.
Section fourteen. Paragraph three.
She opened the fridge. Top shelf. Her section. Takeout containers from Monday. Protein bars Margaret had stocked. Bottle of water with condensation forming on the plastic.
Closed the fridge. Didn't take anything.
Walked to her room. Sat on the bed. Ring caught the lamplight. Threw small pieces of light onto the white ceiling.
Phone buzzed. Unknown number. She let it ring. Went to voicemail. Listened.
Ms. Chen? This is USCIS confirming your interview appointment. Monday, eight AM. Please arrive thirty minutes early with all documentation. Do not be late.
Message ended. Dial tone hummed in her ear. She held the phone there. Listened to the tone. Steady. Constant. Like a heartbeat that wasn't hers.
Set the phone down. Screen cracked further. Bottom corner now. When had that happened? She didn't remember dropping it.
Lay back on the bed. Ceiling white. Plain. No stains. Nothing to trace with her finger when thoughts got too loud.
Outside, Alex moved through the apartment. Footsteps. Door opening. Water running. Normal sounds of normal life happening around a situation that wasn't normal at all.
Monday interview. Sunday dinner. Six months or exit clause.
Elena closed her eyes.
Opened them.
Same ceiling.
Same room.
Same ring on her finger.
Sleep came eventually. Not peaceful. Not restless. Just sleep. The kind that happens when your body stops asking permission.
Tomorrow was Sunday.
Seven PM.
Don't be late.
- Writer
