Chapter 5

Tristan spoke in that careless, teasing tone, as if he expected me to stand up coldly and leave them alone. But I didn't take the hint. I just lifted my glass and took another sip. It wasn't until I got a message saying my friend couldn't make it that I finally stood up. "My friend isn't able to come after all. Excuse me." I turned to leave, but Scarlett spoke up. "Riley, next week is Mr. Godfrey's birthday. We're throwing a yacht party. You should come." I stopped in my tracks. "You have to come," Scarlett said in a sweet voice. "Mr. Godfrey said the birthday gift he wants most is..." She deliberately trailed off and looked at Tristan. He reached over and pinched her cheek, smiling as he teased, "You talk too much." I nodded. "If you're not worried that I'll ruin the party, I can come." I walked out of the restaurant without looking back. Their laughter was sealed behind the glass, fading until I couldn't hear it anymore. When I got back to the villa, it was 7:00 pm. The housekeeper, Winnie Kendall, was in the kitchen making soup. "Mrs. Godfrey, you're back?" she asked. "Mr. Godfrey just called and said he'd be home late. Should I save some soup for him?" "No." I set my bag down. "He won't be coming back." Winnie hesitated as though she were weighing her words. "Then are you sleeping here tonight?" My hand paused on my coat. "What do you mean?" "While you were away on your business trip," Winnie said, her voice dropping lower, "Ms. Robertson... moved in." The air seemed to freeze for a moment. I kept unfastening my coat. "Which room did she use?" "The master bedroom," Winnie said. "Four nights in a row. Mr. Godfrey... was here every night too." I nodded. "Mrs. Godfrey," she said carefully, "It's not that I didn't want to tell you. Mr. Godfrey said you'd be upset if you found out. He told me—" "It's fine," I cut in. "I'm not blaming you." I lifted my eyes and looked around the living room. I'd picked every piece of furniture and hung every painting. Tristan loved it. He used to say, "Riley, this place only feels like home when you're in it." Now, it felt like a hotel. Anyone could come in and sleep here for a few nights. "Mrs. Godfrey, don't hold it in. You can let it out—cry if you need to. It's better than bearing it alone..." Cry? I looked into my own eyes in the glass reflection. There was nothing in them. They were hollow. A well that had been dry for years couldn't suddenly fill up just like that. "Winnie, you can go home for the night," I said. Then, I went upstairs. The moment I pushed open the master bedroom door, a sweet, unfamiliar scent hit me in the face. The sheets had been changed, and my skincare had been shoved to the corner of the vanity. I opened the window and let the night air rush in until it thinned out that cloying smell. In the deepest drawer of the walk-in closet, I found seven journals, lined up by year. They were still there. The cover of the first one was cherry-blossom pink, the kind a teenage girl would've loved. That first year of marriage, I'd written every day about what I cooked for Tristan. On the last page, there was a line in pencil. "Seven-year plan, progress: 1/7." In the second journal, the "main character" abruptly changed. The pages were filled with courses and plans for making myself more attractive. By the third, there was hardly anything left to write down. It wasn't that nothing happened. I just stopped having time to write it down. I used to think that writing down our good times over seven years would keep our marriage going. But I hadn't written a single word in four years. Those four years were spent on more practical things—checking hotel charges linked to his phone number, tracking where the flowers his assistant ordered were delivered... Looking back, I'd spent four years being too understanding and yet never enough. I couldn't even count how many women I'd had to deal with. I dropped the journals into the trash bin. Seven years had passed, but my plan had only moved one step forward. I was the only one still grinding through it. Tristan had long been enjoying himself, fooling around with different women. Just then, my phone buzzed with a flight update. "Ms. Aiken, your specially arranged flight has been confirmed. It departs at 12:00 am." I replied, "Thank you." When I did one last check of my suitcase, my fingers hit something hard at the bottom. It was the thin silver ring Tristan had proposed with. I tossed it aside, grabbed my suitcase, and walked out. The rideshare was waiting right on time. The driver looked at me and asked, "To the airport?" "Yes," I said. ... Third-Person Point of View As expected, Tristan got tangled up with Scarlett and didn't make it home. The next day, close to noon, his phone buzzed and woke him up. It was an automatic alert from the bank. "Your account ending in 8818 transferred one dollar at 03:47 am to the account 'Riley'. Remarks: Divorce agreement payment." He frowned, thinking he must have read it wrong. Just as he leaned in to check again, a news notification lit up his screen. "Breaking: Aiken Group Completes Strategic Split, Aiken and Lyndon Families Announce Marriage Alliance." "What is it?" Scarlett leaned in, her arm curling around his neck. "Who is it? It's so early..." Tristan rubbed at his brow as the screen lit again. It was his lawyer. "Mr. Godfrey, the divorce agreement with both parties' signatures has been filed with the court at Ms. Aiken's request. You must respond within seven days."