Fifty one

Fifty one
Fallon
It started with the coffee.
Which was ridiculous, because coffee should never be the cause of anyone’s unraveling. But when you’re living in a pressure cooker — married to a man who acts like you barely exist — sometimes the little things become the breaking point.
I came down to the kitchen that morning ready for caffeine and a moment of peace. I was already tired, already on edge. The sleepless nights and the silence in this house were wearing me thin, and I just wanted one thing to go right.
But the pot was empty.
The lingering scent of freshly brewed coffee mocked me, curling through the air like a taunt. I stared at the machine, my frustration building.
“Are you kidding me?” I muttered, glaring at the empty carafe like it had personally betrayed me.
“Good morning to you too.”
I spun toward the voice, my pulse spiking — and of course, it was him.
Reid stood by the counter, perfectly put together in his tailored suit, his dark hair smooth and his tie knotted with infuriating precision. He scrolled through his phone like he wasn’t the literal villain in my morning story, his attention completely elsewhere.
“You finished the coffee,” I accused, my voice already sharper than it needed to be.
He didn’t even bother looking up. “I made it. I drank it.”
My blood pressure spiked. “And it didn’t occur to you to maybe make more?”
Finally — finally — he glanced at me, one brow arching in that cool, detached way that made me want to throw something. “I didn’t realize it was life or death.”
“Oh, it is,” I said, the words dripping sarcasm. “But I wouldn’t expect you to notice.”
That got his attention.
His phone slipped into his pocket as he leaned back against the counter, arms crossing over his chest. The way he looked at me — calm, measured — only made my frustration burn hotter.
“All this over coffee?” he asked, his voice infuriatingly even.
“It’s not about the coffee!” I snapped, even though it was about the coffee. And also… not.
It was about the way he’d been gone for days without explanation. The way he slipped into this house late at night and disappeared before I woke up. The way we were supposed to be partners — even if this marriage was fake — and I felt more alone than ever.
But I wasn’t going to say any of that.
So I focused on the coffee.
“You live here too, Reid,” I said, my voice shaking with the effort to keep it steady. “But you act like you don’t. You breeze in and out like this house is a hotel — and I’m just someone you pass on the way to a meeting.”
His jaw tightened, but his face stayed impassive. “You knew what this was when we agreed to it.”
“Yeah, a business arrangement,” I shot back. “Not a disappearing act.”
“Don’t pretend this bothers you,” he said, his voice cooling even more. “You’ve been more than happy keeping your distance.”
“Oh, I’m sorry — was I supposed to chase after you?” I folded my arms, my nails biting into my skin. “Maybe text you a daily itinerary so you’d remember I exist?”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“And you’re being an ass.”
The words landed like a slap, sharp and unforgiving.
The air between us changed — grew heavier, thicker. We stood there, locked in a silent standoff, and for the first time in days, Reid’s perfect composure cracked.
The Real Issue
“You’re the one who wanted separate lives,” Reid said, his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t get mad because I’m giving you exactly what you asked for.”
“Separate lives doesn’t mean being ignored!”
His eyes flashed. “You want attention?” He took a step closer, and my breath caught — but not from fear. From the heat radiating off him, from the intensity in his eyes. “Fine. Let’s talk about your latest little influencer stunt. That dress at the Lumière launch? You looked like you were auditioning for a tabloid scandal.”
My mouth fell open. “Excuse me?”
“You know exactly what you’re doing,” he continued, his voice smooth and dangerous. “Playing the perfect wife one day and the unattainable starlet the next. You love the attention — don’t pretend you don’t.”
The accusation hit hard — not because it was true, but because it wasn’t.
“You don’t get to comment on my job,” I said, my voice trembling with fury, “when you can’t even text me back.”
His eyes darkened, his whole body coiled tight. “Maybe if you stopped performing for the world, you wouldn’t have time to notice.”
That did it.
“Performing?” I took a step toward him, my chest rising and falling too fast. “That’s rich coming from you. Mr. Perfect Husband. Mr. Untouchable CEO. You wouldn’t know real if it slapped you in the face.”
He laughed — a short, bitter sound. “And you’re an expert?”
“I know what it’s like to show up,” I shot back. “Which is more than I can say for you.”
For a moment, there was nothing but silence — and the crackling tension that filled every inch of space between us.
And then —
“You know what, Reid?” I forced my voice steady, even as my heart pounded. “You can keep your empty coffee pot and your empty house. I don’t need either.”
I turned on my heel, the sound of my footsteps echoing as I stormed out of the kitchen — but not before I caught the flicker of something on his face.
Not anger.
Not indifference.
Hurt.
But I didn’t let myself think about that.
I didn’t let myself look back.