The Heiress He Threw Away

Mabel's Point of View: By 3:02 p.m., I'd checked my phone seventeen times. Nothing. No notification. I sighed and turned it face down beside the mixing bowl. "Maybe he's busy." The words sounded more like an excuse than an answer, but I pushed the thought aside and bent down to open the oven. A blast of heat smacked me right in the face, making me stumble backward. "Damn. That s**t almost took my life." I waved the heat away, blinking rapidly, before grabbing one of the wooden skewers scattered across the marble island. I crouched in front of the oven and pushed it into the center of the cake. When I pulled it out, there wasn't a single crumb clinging to it. A smile formed on my face. "Perfect." I slipped on the oven gloves and carefully lifted the cake onto the island to cool before turning my attention to the steak. "Please don't embarrass me today." I sprinkled salt, black pepper, garlic powder, and a little paprika over the meat, rubbing the seasoning into every corner. Medium-well. That was how Dexter liked his steak. Of course it was. My husband couldn't just like normal things. Even his steak had standards. I shook my head with a quiet laugh and moved on to the mashed potatoes. The aroma filling the kitchen made my stomach rumble, but I ignored it. I wanted to wait for him. I wanted to sit across from Dexter tonight, watch him take his first bite, and pretend I wasn't waiting for that little look of approval I knew so well. Four years of marriage, and somehow, I still wanted to impress him. I glanced at the clock again. 3:05 p.m. He should be home soon. He promised. That morning, I'd followed Dexter to the front door while he adjusted his watch. "You're leaving already?" "I have a meeting." His voice travelled through the mansion. "But you're coming back early, right?" He glanced at me. "I'll try." "No." I folded my arms. "Not try. Come back early." A faint smile pulled at his lips. "Why? Are you planning something?" "Maybe..." His eyebrow lifted. I smiled and walked closer, straightening the collar of his shirt even though there was absolutely nothing wrong with it. "Just don't forget what today is." For a moment, he didn't say anything. His eyes dropped to his phone before returning to me. Then he nodded. "I won't." "Promise?" "Promise." He leaned down and kissed my forehead before opening the door. "Don't be late," I called after him. He looked back with a smile. "I won't." I watched his car disappear down the driveway, then stood there for another few seconds, smiling to myself like an i***t. He remembered. At least, I lied to myself he did. By 4:30, the dining table was finally ready. Sapphire-blue ribbons curled around the centerpiece, candles and flowers sat between the plates, and the cake occupied the middle of the table like it had personally been invited to our anniversary. I stepped back to admire it. Something looked wrong. I walked closer and adjusted one of the flowers. Then another. I reached for a third before stopping myself. "Nope." If I kept going, I'd have the entire table rearranged before Dexter even got home. I wiped the decorative glue from my fingers and looked at the cake. "If he doesn't appreciate all this, I'm eating you myself." I grinned. Four f*****g years. Four years of marriage. Sometimes I still caught myself wondering how the eighteen-year-old Mabel who had fallen for Dexter had somehow become his wife. Back then, he had nothing but ambition, a few sketches, and enough confidence to convince everyone around him that success was inevitable. I had believed him before there was anything to prove. When money was tight, I worked. When he doubted himself, I reminded him why he started. When his dreams seemed too big, I simply told him we'd figure it out. And somehow, we did. Now he owned a multimillion-dollar fashion house. His designs appeared in magazines and on television, and the same people who once ignored him now wanted a piece of what he'd built. I still remembered the day he'd looked at me and said, "You were the only one who believed in me." I'd smiled so hard that day my cheeks hurt. Maybe that was why I wanted tonight to be perfect. I wanted him to remember that, beneath all the money and success, I was still the girl who had believed in him when he had nothing. At 5:20, I sat cross-legged on the living-room floor, surrounded by cardboard, ribbons, scissors, tape, and enough glue to permanently attach me to the carpet. I held up one of the letters I'd cut out. It was slightly crooked. I kept staring at it. "Close enough." I added another ribbon and moved on. Everything had to be perfect tonight. Not because Dexter had asked for any of it, but because I wanted to see his face when he walked through the door and realized I'd done all this just for him. By 6:30, I brought the drinks out of the freezer and arranged them around the table. Then I checked my phone. Nothing. I looked toward the front door. Still nothing. My fingers reached for one of the decorations. I straightened it. Then I straightened another. I forced myself to sit down. He was probably on his way, right? I opened our chat and typed. Are you on your way, honey? Delivered. I waited. No reply. I locked my phone and placed it on the table. Two minutes later, I picked it up again. Still nothing. I hated how quickly my mind started filling in the silence, so I pushed my thoughts away. Dexter had an important business opportunity today. His latest collection was being submitted to a major distribution network, and if everything went well, his designs would reach a much larger pool of clients. I knew how much this meant to him, so I could wait. At least, that's what I told myself. By eight, I'd called him once. No answer. I stared at his name on my screen, my thumb hovering over the call button. Maybe he was in a meeting. Maybe his phone was on silent. Maybe I was being dramatic. I put the phone down. I wasn't going to be that wife who made a big deal out of her husband working late. I could be understanding. I could be patient. I could do all those things. But surely, he could spare ten seconds to tell me he wouldn't be home on time? I picked up my phone and typed another message. Hey, just checking on you. Hope everything is going well. I watched the message deliver. Nothing. I swallowed the lump forming in my throat and got up to check the food. By nine, the food had gone cold. The drinks were losing their chill, and the candles I'd carefully placed around the table had burned low enough for wax to pool around their bases. I reached over and blew one out. Then another. The house felt strangely quiet without them flickering in front of me. I looked at the empty chair across from me. Maybe he really was busy. Maybe the meeting had dragged on. Maybe he'd been caught in traffic. I could find a reason for almost anything if I tried hard enough. But not one text? That was harder. I picked up my phone and opened our chat again. The last message was still mine. Hey, just checking on you. Hope everything is going well. Delivered. I locked the screen again. I hadn't wanted an expensive gift. I didn't need some dramatic surprise waiting for me when he walked through the door. I just wanted him here. That shouldn't have been too much to ask. By eleven, I'd given up on pretending I wasn't waiting. I pushed the plates aside and rested my cheek against the table. My eyes drifted toward the cake. The buttercream was beginning to sweat beneath the kitchen lights, and one of the candles had melted into an ugly little puddle beside it. My phone pinged, and I grabbed it immediately. Duolingo. I stared at the notification. 56-day streak. "You've got to be f*****g kidding me." I dropped the phone back onto the table. "Give me a break, you stupid bird." A loud pop came from the living room. I lifted my head. One of the balloons had just given up too. Even the balloons couldn't wait that long. I stared at it for a moment. "Pfft... lame." The laugh that escaped me was weak, but at least it was something. I picked up my phone and called Dexter again. No answer. I tried once more. Still nothing. I glanced at the cake as my stomach growled loudly, protesting. Earlier, I'd joked about eating it myself if Dexter didn't appreciate everything I'd done. Now I couldn't even look at it without feeling sick. I had spent the entire day preparing for a man who couldn't spare twenty seconds to tell me where he was. When he came home, he'd better have one hell of an explanation. 11:58 p.m. Two f*****g minutes until the anniversary was over. What's the point? I stared at Dexter's name on my screen. I shouldn't call since I'd already called twice. I called anyway. The phone rang, then someone answered. "Hello?" I froze. A woman's voice. For a moment, I simply sat there with the phone pressed to my ear, trying to place it. I knew that voice. I just couldn't remember from where. "Who is this?" There was a pause. And then she laughed softly. "You're Mabel, aren't you?" My grip tightened around the phone. "Yes." A strange feeling settled in my stomach. "Who are you?" I asked. "Oh." The amusement in her voice deepened. "So you're the wife." I sat up, "Where's Dexter?" "He's here." The room suddenly felt smaller. "Put him on the phone." "Why?" "Because I want to speak to my husband!" She laughed again. Not nervously. Not awkwardly. Like there was something funny about the fact that I was asking. "You know, Mabel, I really don't understand why you're so worried." "What are you talking about?" "If Dexter wanted to spend his anniversary with you, don't you think he'd be there by now?" I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I could hear faint movement on the other end of the call. Then she spoke again. "He's with me." My eyes moved slowly across the room. The sapphire-blue ribbons. The untouched plates. The half-melted candles. The cake I'd spent hours making. All of it suddenly looked stupid. The woman was quiet for a moment. Then, almost casually, she added, "And honestly?" My fingers went cold. "He loves me more." I stopped breathing for a moment. My eyes dropped to the phone screen. 12:01 a.m. Our anniversary was over.