Chapter 80 You’re the Pathetic One
'AROUND 3PM. FIVE DAYS LATER'
The master bedroom at 3:00 p.m. was flooded with pale winter light that did nothing to warm the air. Maggie perched on the very edge of the king-sized mattress, knees pressed together, bare feet flat against the cold hardwood. The silk duvet bunched beneath her clenched fists. Her phone lay face-down beside her hip like an accusation.
For two hours straight her thumbs had swiped and tapped— gallery, files, notes, downloads, even the trash folder she’d learned how to open only last week. Nothing. No blurry Polaroids of secret ceremonies, no scanned pages tucked inside a password-protected note, no incriminating selfies with Amelia smiling over Andrew’s shoulder. Just a barren digital life: six contacts total. Andrew’s name sat alone at the top, the only one that ever rang through. Every other number— dead tone, “number not in service,” or worse, the mechanical female voice that said the line had been disconnected.
She stared at the black screen now, reflection showing her hollowed cheeks and red-rimmed eyes.
“How did I not check this sooner?” she whispered, her voice cracking on the last word. “It’s been over two fucking weeks since I came home from the hospital. Over two weeks. And I never once thought to check my own damn phone.”
She hissed through her teeth— sharp, self-loathing— and flung the device onto the bed. It bounced once, landed screen-up, mocking her with its empty lock screen.
She stood. Started pacing. Five steps to the tall window that overlooked bare trees and snow-dusted woods, five steps back to the footboard. The room felt smaller every circuit, walls leaning in, air thickening until each breath tasted like regret.
“I’ve been walking around like a ghost in my own life,” she muttered. “Tonia had to show me how to use YouTube. YouTube. If not for her, I’d still be completely clueless about how to operate any app on this device.”
She stopped dead in the center of the rug. Her gaze dropped to the phone again.
“Tonia…” The name came out soft, almost tender. She remembered the conversation from four days ago— sitting on the back porch steps, voice low so Andrew wouldn’t hear through the open kitchen window.
“Tonia, be honest. Did you ever see me with another woman? Did Andrew ever bring anyone home before?”
Tonia’s face had crumpled in sympathy. “Maggie, honey, I swear— if there was someone else, you two did a great job keeping it a secret. I never saw a thing.”
Maggie’s laugh now was bitter, soundless. She pressed both palms to her temples.
Five days. Five days since Andrew had walked through the front door with Amelia on his arm like a new accessory. Five days since he’d handed her that contract and watched her world tilt. And in all that time he had not once stepped foot in this bedroom after dark. Not once slipped under the covers beside her. Every night the hallway light clicked off, footsteps faded toward the guest wing, and the door at the far end of the corridor closed with a soft, satisfied snick.
Enough.
She snatched her phone off the bed— more out of habit than purpose— then stormed toward the door. The handle was cool under her palm. She yanked it open so hard the hinges protested.
Two minutes later she was standing outside the guest suite at the end of the east wing. Her fist rose, knuckles white.
She banged once— hard, deliberate— then didn’t wait.
The door flew inward.
Time stuttered.
Andrew was on top. Bare back flexing, hips rolling in a slow, practiced rhythm. Amelia beneath him— legs hooked high around his waist, crimson nails dragging down his shoulders, head thrown back against the pillow, lips parted on a low, throaty moan. The sheets were twisted around their ankles; sunlight slanted across sweat-slick skin and caught the glint of Amelia’s gold ankle chain.
Maggie’s jaw unhinged. A raw, animal sound tore out of her throat— half scream, half sob.
Andrew froze mid-thrust. His head snapped toward the doorway.
Amelia’s eyes opened lazily. She smiled— small, victorious— and tightened her legs around him.
Maggie staggered backward. Her heel caught the threshold. She lurched into the hallway, shoulder slamming the doorframe. Vision swimming, hot tears spilled instantly, blurring the corridor into streaks of cream paint and dark wood.
She ran— blind, stumbling— until her knees buckled. She caught herself against the opposite wall and slid down it, curling into herself.
Behind her, the bed creaked. Fabric rustled.
Andrew rose in one fluid motion. He scooped his black boxer briefs from the floor, stepped into them, yanked them up. Barefoot, he started after her.
Amelia sat up slowly, sheets pooling around her waist. Her voice floated out, calm and cool.
“Let her go.”
Andrew stopped three strides from the doorway. He glanced back over his shoulder.
Amelia propped herself on one elbow, hair mussed, lips swollen. She tilted her head.
“She needs to feel it sink in.”
A slow smile spread across Andrew’s face— dark, approving. He nodded once, then turned and disappeared back inside. The door eased shut.
Five hours later. 8:00 p.m.
The hallway sconces had come on, casting long amber pools across the runner. Maggie still sat on the floor, back pressed to the wall, knees drawn to her chest. Her cheeks were streaked and puffy; mascara had dried in black rivers. She hadn’t moved since the tears finally slowed to hiccupping silence.
A door opened farther down the corridor.
Andrew stepped out, shirtless, hair damp from a shower. He walked toward the staircase without hurry.
As he passed her, he glanced down.
“Pathetic,” he whispered. The word was soft, almost affectionate in its cruelty.
Maggie’s head jerked up. Eyes blazing.
She shoved to her feet.
Andrew kept walking.
She lunged after him, caught up in six strides, darted past, and spun to block his path.
“I’m not pathetic,” she said. Voice low. Shaking. But steady. “You’re the pathetic one.”