The CEO's Regret: Darling, Don’t Leave Me

Clara I never imagined that living in this way could hurt so much. Living in the midst of silences and absences are installed between two people who share a house, a bed and a surname... but not a life. I'm sitting in front of our bedroom mirror, brushing my hair in slow, mechanical motions. Not because I need to, but because I don't know what else to do while I wait. I always wait. To Ethan. His arrival, his voice, his presence. The clock strikes eleven forty-seven at night. I get to know him so well that I know he'll arrive after midnight. Always after midnight. As if the day only had room for him and his work, and I was an appendage to which he returns when there is no energy left for anything else. I look in the mirror and I struggle to recognize the woman who stares back at me. I don't look bad… I'm not neglected. I'm wearing a simple white silk nightgown, the one he gave me months ago on a business trip. He never noticed it, he never commented on it... He never looked at me carefully enough to realize that I use it almost every night. Sometimes I think that if it suddenly disappeared, it would take days for Ethan to notice. I rest the brush on the dresser when I hear the sound of the front door opening. I don't jump, I don't smile. Nor do I get up immediately. I just take a deep breath, as if I'm preparing for something that, deep down, I already know what it will be like. His footsteps echo through the house; firm, steady, tired. I know him so well I could describe his mood just by the way he walks. Today he's exhausted. He enters the bedroom without knocking on the door, loosening his tie as he walks straight to the bathroom. He doesn't even look at me. The door closes behind him, and the sound of falling water fills the space his voice never occupies. "Hello," I say quietly, knowing he won't hear me. Or maybe it does, but it doesn't respond. I get up from the seat and approach the bed, carefully arranging the quilt that no one messed up. Our bedroom always looks perfect, tidy, impeccable... just like our marriage. At least on the outside. When Ethan comes out of the bathroom, he wears his damp hair and his shirt open to his chest. He is an attractive man. It always has been... Tall, confident, with that presence that fills any boardroom and makes everyone hear him when he speaks. I watch him from bed, as I have done so many nights, wondering at what point I stopped being someone he wanted to look at. "How was your day?" I ask, trying to make my voice sound natural. He sits on the edge of the bed and checks something on his phone. "Long," he replies. Just that. Long. I nod, as if that word were enough to summarize hours, thoughts, emotions. As if that were enough. "I asked them to make soup," I say. "It's in the kitchen, in case you're hungry. I can ask for them to be served for you." Ethan puts the phone aside and takes off his watch. "I'm not hungry." He doesn't ask if I ate. He never does. He lies next to me, keeping an exact distance between our bodies. Not too close, not too far. Just the right distance so as not to look strange... but not like husband and wife either. Turn off the light without asking me. And there, in the dark, I feel it again; that emptiness that opens in my chest, that silent certainty that has accompanied me for months. My marriage is not a love story. It never was. I married Ethan Blackwood knowing that there would be no romantic promises or passionate statements. It was an agreement, an alliance. A pact that benefited both families and consolidated his image as the young, brilliant and stable CEO of New York. For the press, we were perfect. For high society, admirable. For me... It was a lonely life shared with someone who never chose me. Ethan is not a cruel man. He has never yelled at me, he has never humiliated me, he has never raised his voice at me. But their indifference outweighs any blow. We sleep in the same bed, we have breakfast at the same table. We attend events together. And yet, I feel like I live alone. Sometimes I wonder if he notices how little we talk. If he realizes that I know more about his schedule than his thoughts. That I know what time he gets home, but not what he's feeling. He is not in love with anyone. Nor from me. And I know this because love leaves traces, even when it is hidden. And Ethan... leaves none. I turn around, turning my back to him, pretending that sleep comes easily. He doesn't move, he doesn't hug me, he doesn't ask me if I'm okay. Silence settles back among us. In the morning, everything is the same. I wake up before him, as always. I go down to the kitchen and make the coffee myself. I place two cups on the table, even though I know I'll only use one. Ethan has a quick breakfast, standing, checking emails, always in a hurry. "I have an important meeting today," he says as he puts on his jacket. "I'll be late." Again. "All right," I reply. "Do you want me to come with you tonight? There is a dinner with investors." Ethan pauses for a second, as if the question takes him by surprise. "You don't have to," he says. "It's just work." I nod. I always nod. When the door closes behind him, I stand in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the two cups of coffee. His intact. Cold. I collect everything in silence, I don't remember when was the last time we argued. Not because everything is fine, but because I learned to be silent, to keep my questions to myself. Not to demand. Because demanding implies expecting something in return. And I... I don't know what to expect anymore. In the middle of the morning I check my agenda, organize calls, answer emails. My life revolves around keeping everything running, holding an image that looks perfect from the outside. In the afternoon, as I check out some invitations to an upcoming company event, I see his name on my phone screen. Ethan. My heart takes a small absurd leap. "Yes?" I reply. "Can you send Vanessa the project documents?" he asks. "She needs them today." Vanessa Reed. I swallow hard. "Sure," I say. "I will send them to her now." "Thank you." The call is cut off. I stare at the phone's off screen for a few seconds, feeling that familiar twinge in my chest. Vanessa is part of the work environment, that's what I always tell myself. An external partner. A brilliant, ambitious, self-confident woman. A woman who does not hide too much the interest she feels for my husband. Ethan says I exaggerate. Or, rather, he never says anything. It does not set limits. He does not explain. He does not clarify. He assumes that, if it is not important to him, it should not be for me either. But I see things that he doesn't see. Or that he does not want to see. The prolonged looks. The smiles full of intention. Calls at times that are not necessary. And although I have never had real proof, every little detail accumulates inside me like a wound that does not quite heal. I don't say anything, I never say anything. At night, when Ethan is late again, I repeat the same routine. The wait. Silence. The exact distance in bed. And as I look at the ceiling in the darkness, a question forms in my mind, insistent, painful. How much longer can I live like this? I don't want to be a perfect wife just for others. I don't want to keep pretending that this doesn't hurt. I don't want to continue loving a man who doesn't know how — or doesn't want to — love me. I close my eyes, forcing myself to breathe calmly. Tomorrow will be another day... That's what I always tell myself. But deep down, deep down, something is beginning to crack. And although I don't know yet, this will be one of the last nights in which I will sleep next to him feeling completely alone. The house goes silent again when Ethan leaves. This time it is not early. It's almost nine o'clock in the morning and, even so, I feel that his absence weighs the same as always. I stand in front of the studio window, watching his car disappear at the end of the road, as if something inside me is waiting for him to stop at the last second. That he would return. To turn around. It doesn't, it never does. I take a deep breath and force myself to move. I have things to do, commitments to attend to, a life to sustain, even if no one notices the effort involved. Today there is an event of the company. A private reception organized for foreign partners and investors. Ethan said I didn't need to attend, but his assistant sent me the invitation anyway. It is not the first time. To the world, I'm still Mrs. Blackwood. For Ethan... I am an optional presence. Anyway, I decide to go. Not for him, but for me. Because I need to feel that I still exist beyond this silent house, beyond a marriage that is sustained only by habit and appearances. I spend the morning choosing the dress carefully. I'm not looking for something provocative, but I don't want to disappear either. I decide on a dark blue, elegant, sober, which marks just the right thing. I tie my hair up, leave a few strands loose around my face, and apply gentle makeup. I look at myself in the mirror, I'm still me. The woman who one day believed that time would make love grow. The one who thought that closeness would create something real. The one who settled for crumbs because they told her that this was the way marriage was. The event hall is full when I arrive. The warm lights, the overlapping conversations, the clinking of glasses. Everything shines. Everything seems perfect... As always. I walk among the guests with a polite smile, greeting those I recognize, exchanging trivial phrases that mean nothing. They ask me about Ethan, about the company, about the next projects. "He must be very busy," they say. "Always so dedicated." I nod, as if that didn't hurt. I find him on the other side of the room, surrounded by people. It's impeccable, as always. Dark suit, firm posture, measured smile. He speaks confidently, with that ease that makes him stand out. When someone hears it, they feel that they are in front of someone important. I felt it once, too. I approach slowly, hoping that he will see me before arriving, that he will notice my presence. It doesn't. It's Vanessa who turns first and watches me. Vanessa Reed is exactly as I remembered her. Tall, elegant, with a confident smile that seems rehearsed for every occasion. Her dress is clear, striking without being exaggerated. She's too close to Ethan. "Clara," she says when she sees me. "It's so nice to see you." Her tone is friendly, but there's something in her eyes that isn't. "Vanessa," I reply, keeping my composure. "Likewise." Ethan finally turns to me. "I didn't know you were coming," he says. It doesn't sound annoying. Nor pleased. Just surprised, as if I hadn't considered myself part of the stage. "I received the invitation," I answered. "I thought it was appropriate." He nods, as if my presence were a logical decision, not something personal. "Of course." And that's it. He doesn't introduce me. He doesn't take my arm. There is not that automatic gesture that marriages that work have. Vanessa steps forward. "We were talking about the new project in London," she says. "Ethan believes it could expand faster than anticipated." She says it by looking at him, not at me. "It's a possibility," Ethan replies. "There are still details to be adjusted." They talk for several minutes. I am there, listening, smiling when necessary, but feeling invisible. I don't intervene. Nobody expects me to. At some point, Vanessa places her hand on Ethan's arm. It is a brief, seemingly innocent gesture. He does not move away. Something inside me tenses up. It is not explosive jealousy. It's something more subtle. Sadder. It is the confirmation of something that I have been avoiding accepting for a long time. I apologize with a smile. "I'm going to get something to drink." No one tries to stop me. I walk over to the bar and order a glass of wine. The first sip comes down slowly, hot. I rest my elbow on the polished surface and watch the reflection of the living room in the mirror in front of me. Couples talking, soft laughter, eye contact. And me... alone.