Chapter 122

Viola.

The ice age in the penthouse had a soundtrack: the tick of the grandfather clock in the hall, the hum of the elevator, and the bright, tinny ring of Mark’s phone when she called. He never said her name to me anymore. He didn’t have to. His voice would change—a fraction softer, a hint of a smile in it. “Yes?… Uh-huh… No, that’s fine, send it to my personal email… Thanks, Em.”

Em.

I’d stand in the kitchen, blending organic pears for Eloise, and feel my fingers go numb around the spoon.

My birthday rolled around. I didn’t expect a parade, but the year before, Mark had filled our bedroom with white orchids and taken me to Paris for the weekend. Eloise had been a tiny, sleeping bundle between us on the private jet. It felt like a lifetime ago.

This year, I told myself not to hope. But a stupid, stubborn part of me, the part that still remembered the man who’d looked at me like I held the sun, whispered maybe. Maybe the birthday would break the spell. Maybe seeing me in a dress, maybe cake with our daughter, would remind him of what we were.

I was a fool.

I put on the emerald dress. The one from the summit. My “power color.” It felt like a costume now, but I needed the armor. I did my hair, my makeup. I told a wide-eyed Eloise, in her tiny pink tutu, that Daddy was coming for a party.

I ordered a cake. I even had Carl hang a “Happy Birthday” banner in the living room. It looked sad and desperate fluttering against the cold, modern wall.

Six o’clock came. Eloise, hyped on the promise of sugar, started to fuss. I texted Mark. Running late?

No answer.

Six-thirty. I called. It went straight to voicemail. The cold dread started to pool in my stomach.

At seven, his car pulled into the private garage downstairs. Relief, warm and dizzying, washed over me. “He’s here, sweetie! Daddy’s here!”

But he didn’t come up. The elevator didn’t ding.

My phone rang. It was him.

“Hey.” His voice was tight, distracted.

“Hey. You’re downstairs? Come up, Eloise is about to melt down.”

“Listen, I can’t. Something’s come up.”

The world did a slow, sickening tilt. “What?”

“Emily. She sprained her ankle pretty bad leaving the office. She’s in a lot of pain, can’t drive. I need to take her to urgent care, get it looked at. Maybe get her home.”

The words didn’t make sense at first. They were just sounds. Emily. Ankle. Urgent care.

On my birthday.

“You’re… you’re taking your secretary to the doctor?” My voice sounded thin, far away.

“It’s my responsibility, Viola. She works for me. She’s alone in the city, she has no one.” He said it like he was explaining basic decency to a child. “It’s an accident. Don’t be childish.”

Childish. The word was a slap.

“It’s my birthday,” I whispered, the last pathetic defense.

A heavy sigh crackled down the line. “I know what day it is. This isn't a choice. I’ll make it up to you. Order yourself something nice. Put it on the card.”

I’ll make it up to you. The empty promise of a guilty man.

Order yourself something nice. Like I was a mistress he’d stood up.

Before I could say another word, he was gone. “I have to go. She’s waiting in the car.”

The line went dead.

I stood in the middle of the living room, in the emerald armor, under the stupid, fluttering banner. Eloise tugged on my dress. “Mama? Cake?”

I looked down at her big, confused eyes. Something inside me broke open, a clean, terrible fracture. I knelt and pulled her into a hug so tight she squirmed. “Soon, baby. Let’s have cake now. Just us girls.”

We ate cake. I helped her blow out the single candle I’d put out for her to blow. She smeared chocolate frosting across her tutu and laughed. I smiled until my face ached. I took pictures of her. I did not take pictures of myself.

I put her to bed, read her Goodnight Moon twice, and tucked the stuffed elephant under her arm. I kissed her forehead. “Mama loves you bigger than the sky,” I murmured, the old lullaby catching in my throat.

Then I went to the living room, took down the banner, and threw it in the trash. I took off the emerald dress, rolled it into a ball, and shoved it to the back of my closet. I put on one of Mark’s old t-shirts and a pair of sweats.

I waited.

He came home just before midnight. I heard the elevator, his footsteps. He went straight to the kitchen. I heard the clink of a glass, the pour of whiskey.

I walked out. He was leaning against the counter, tie gone, hair messy, staring into his drink.

He looked up, saw me. For a second, his face was unguarded. I saw exhaustion, and something else—a flicker of guilt. Then it was gone, replaced by that familiar, closed-off mask.

“How’s her ankle?” I asked, my voice flat.

“Bad sprain. They wrapped it. I got her some crutches, took her home.” He took a sip. “You didn't have to wait up.”

“I wasn't waiting for you. I was waiting to see if my husband remembered it was my birthday after he finished playing hero for his secretary.”

He slammed the glass down. “For Christ’s sake, Viola! It was a medical emergency! What was I supposed to do, leave her crying on the sidewalk because it’s your birthday? You’re not a child!”

“I’m your wife!” The words tore out of me, raw and sharp. “Or did you forget that too? Between the late nights and the private jokes and the fucking tie recommendations?”

His eyes went cold. “There it is. The jealousy. It’s ugly, Viola. And it’s beneath you.”

“Jealousy?” A hollow laugh escaped me. “You’re right. I’m jealous of the way you look at her. I’m jealous of the way you listen to her. I’m jealous that she gets the best of you, and I get the scraps you can’t be bothered to give her!”

He pushed off the counter, looming over me. “She does her job. She’s efficient. She doesn't make everything a fucking emotional battleground! Maybe if you spent less time feeling sorry for yourself and more time acting like the queen of this empire instead of a spoiled princess, I’d want to come home!”

The blow landed, dead-center. He saw me flinch, and a muscle in his jaw ticked. He looked away, running a hand over his face. “I’m going to bed. I’m too tired for this.”

He brushed past me. I stood frozen in the cold, silent kitchen, the smell of his whiskey and that hint of lemon-rain perfume clinging to the air where he’d been.

I didn't follow him. I didn't cry.

I walked to the wall of windows and looked out at the city. My birthday was over. The cake was eaten. The banner was trashed.

And my husband had chosen, very clearly, whose pain was more important.

The ice wasn't just around me anymore. It was inside me. A cold, hard core settling in my chest.

I had fought rivals, I had killed a man, I had built a piece of an empire for this man.

And on my birthday, I’d lost him to a sprained ankle.