Chapter One Marble And Merlot
1760 Words
~ Lily ~
Fuck my life.
The thought drifts through my head right as my phone starts vibrating across the black marble ledge beside the bathtub.
I ignore it, but the phone vibrates again, and I ignore that too.
By the third time, I’m actively rooting for gravity to do its job and drag the damn thing into the bathwater.
Unfortunately, expensive electronics are surprisingly resilient, kind of like bad marriages.
Both survive far longer than they should.
The bathroom glows gold around me, featuring soft lighting, heated floors, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan.
Somewhere, I know an architect probably won an award for designing this space.
Meanwhile, I’m sitting naked in a bathtub at eleven o’clock at night, smoking a cigarette and drinking wine while contemplating how to murder my own public image.
The cigarette burns between my fingers as I stare out at the city as rain streaks down the glass on the plus side everything looks beautiful from forty stories up because distance improves almost everything.
It improves cities, people, reputations, and marriages, especially marriages.
My phone starts vibrating again, and with a heavy sigh, I reach over and grab it before it launches itself into the tub.
The screen lights up with Dylan's name.
Of course it does.
The man has spent the past three years completely forgetting I exist, yet he suddenly develops severe separation anxiety whenever there’s a major public event approaching.
Tomorrow starts at 7. The senator moved dinner earlier, his first text reads.
A second message arrives immediately right after.
Wear the silver Valentino, the press will be everywhere.
I stare at the screen and let out a dry laugh, not because it’s funny, but because apparently we’re completely skipping basic human conversation now.
There is no hello, no goodnight, and no inquiry about how I am doing.
There are only instructions.
I should probably be offended by the coldness of it, but instead, I just feel tired.
That’s the problem with humiliation.
If someone gives you enough of it, eventually it stops feeling personal and just starts feeling like a bother.
I drop the phone back onto the marble ledge and take a long sip of wine.
The merlot is warm and so is my bathwater, and while neither should be, I find that I truly don't care.
Technically, Dylan Callahan is no longer my husband, which is the funniest part of this entire situation.
The divorce papers were finalised months ago, signed and filed with witnesses present in the room.
The marriage is completely dead, and the official paperwork says so.
Unfortunately, wealthy people treat divorce the exact same way they treat corporate mergers.
Strategically, and with extensive legal oversight.
Tomorrow night, we will still walk into a high-society fundraiser together holding hands as if nothing ever happened.
The cameras will take pictures of us, socialites will compliment us, and some journalists will probably write an annoying article about our enduring love.
Meanwhile, our actual divorce decree is sitting quietly in a lawyer’s office downtown.
Sometimes I wonder if rich people are the only people capable of turning a devastating breakup into a public relations campaign.
The cigarette crackles softly between my fingers as thunder rolls somewhere beyond the skyline.
Inside the quiet bathroom, my phone lights up again with a new message from him.
“Please don’t make tomorrow difficult.”
That line actually makes me choke on my wine.
The word difficult coming from him is incredibly rich, especially since it's coming from a man who spent years sleeping with anything possessing a pulse and questionable judgment.
The very same man who gave me three separate infections in less than six months is worried about me being difficult tomorrow.
I set my wine glass down firmly before I accidentally throw it across the room.
The first infection came with an apology bouquet of flowers, and the second came with diamonds.
By the third one, even Ginger, my closest friend and personal doctor, looked entirely exhausted.
"Dylan still thinks it was a toilet seat?" she’d asked while carefully reviewing my chart.
I remember both of us staring at each other for a moment before we both burst out laughing, because what else could we possibly do?
Apparently, the city of New York is filled with magical restrooms specifically targeting my husband.
Not other businessmen, not tourists, and not random strangers.
Just Dylan.
The poor man simply couldn’t catch a break, or common sense.
The worst part of it all wasn’t even the cheating.
It was the pathetic lying afterwards.
The lies weren't offensive because they were convincing, but rather because they were deeply insulting.
If you’re going to destroy my dignity, at least respect my intelligence enough to craft a decent alibi.
I take another drag from my cigarette and close my eyes, remembering that the first time I caught him was almost boring.
That’s what nobody tells you about betrayal.
It always happens on a completely random Tuesday.
Dylan had handed me his phone while stepping into the shower because someone from London kept calling about a pending deal.
A message appeared seconds later, followed by another, and then a graphic picture of him and a woman.
I remember staring at the screen and waiting for my heart to break, or for myself to feel devastated enough to scream.
Instead, I found myself staring past the phone, remembering that the grout in the bathroom tile was getting mouldy.
That realisation scared me far more than the affair itself, because what kind of woman discovers her husband is cheating and starts mentally redecorating the house?
A woman who checked out of the relationship years ago, that’s who.
The phone buzzes again, but this time it isn’t Dylan.
It's Mom.
I smile despite myself as the contact photo appears, a blurry picture of her and Dad somewhere in Greece looking annoyingly happy.
My parents retired three years ago and somehow turned it into a full-time hobby.
Every few weeks they’re in a different country, pretending they didn't leave the bulk of their massive legacy to me.
Still awake? Her text reads.
I type back a single word.
Unfortunately.
Three dots appear on the screen immediately before her reply pops up.
Thinking about tomorrow?
Obviously, I reply.
Want me to call? She asks.
I stare at the message and then look around the empty bathroom, taking in the giant tub and the sprawling penthouse around me.
For one second, I almost type out a yes, but then I change my mind.
No. Go enjoy retirement, I send back.
You’re allowed to be nervous, Lily, she texts.
I’m not nervous, I reply, and that part is actually true.
Being nervous would imply that I'm uncertain about the future, which can't be right because I know exactly what I’m going to do tomorrow night.
Your father says that’s usually when people should be nervous, she messages back.
I laugh out loud because Dad would absolutely say something like that.
Cole built an empire out of shipping routes, logistics contracts, and relationships with men who preferred handshakes to actual paperwork.
According to every rumour in the city, he was incredibly dangerous once.
According to my mother, he was just stubborn.
Either way, they retired years ago and left the entire business to me.
I inherited the clean businesses, the dirty businesses, and the complicated businesses that nobody ever discusses at charity galas.
Every board meeting, every responsibility, and every mounting problem landed squarely on my shoulders.
I inherited absolutely everything they built.
Except for their happiness.
That part, apparently, had to be earned separately.
I stub my cigarette into the crystal ashtray beside the tub, which I immediately regret, before promptly lighting another one.
Going to therapy would probably be a much healthier outlet.
But nicotine works significantly faster.
The city glows beautifully beyond the glass, looking cold and entirely untouchable.
I used to think that having everything would make me feel free, and the magazines certainly backed up that theory.
Forbes loved me.
Business journals loved me.
Investors loved me.
Apparently, becoming a woman of massive influence before the age of thirty is very inspiring when viewed from a safe distance.
But unfortunately, nobody writes articles about eating takeout alone at midnight.
Nobody writes articles about sleeping beside a husband who hasn’t looked at you properly in years.
And nobody writes articles about sitting in a bathtub wondering whether you’ve become so numb you’ll never feel anything again.
Those dark stories don’t sell magazines.
But I know for a fact that tomorrow’s story will.
The fundraiser will be packed with politicians, investors, and high-society socialites.
Women who secretly hate each other while complimenting each other's dresses will be there, alongside the men who measure their self-worth entirely in net worth.
They will all be watching.
Smiling.
Performing.
And right in the middle of it, I’m going to stand up and tell the truth.
For years, I’ve hidden Dylan’s affairs, the endless parade of women, the lies, the infections, and the public humiliation.
I didn't do it because I loved him.
I did it because I didn’t want the chaotic attention a public divorce would bring.
Tomorrow, I’m getting that attention anyway.
And while the realization should terrify me, it feels oddly peaceful instead.
Like finally reaching the end of a very long and exhausting argument.
My bathwater has gone completely cold.
The wine is entirely gone.
And the cigarette is almost finished.
Still, I don’t move from the tub.
I just sit there staring through the rain-streaked glass at the city I’ve spent my entire life trying to impress.
Somewhere between the fourth glass of wine and the second cigarette, a quiet thought had settled inside my head.
Maybe the reason I’ve been so miserable all this time isn’t actually Dylan.
Maybe it isn’t even because of the cheating or the marriage itself.
Maybe the real misery comes from the pretending.
Because pretending is utterly exhausting.
It is exhausting to pretend you’re happy.
To pretend you’re loved.
To pretend you’re not deeply embarrassed by your life.
Outside the window, lightning flashes brightly across the city skyline.
Inside, my phone lights up one last time with another text from Dylan.
I don’t even bother opening it.
For the first time in years, I genuinely don’t care what he has to say.
Tomorrow he can explain his actions to somebody else.
Because tomorrow, I’m officially done pretending.
And for the first time in a very long time, that thought tastes far better than the wine.
- Writer
