4. Chapter Four
Chapter four
Inés
Harrison is already in his office when I get there, but Margaux is nowhere to be seen. I feel a small surge of relief as I go in and shut the door behind me.
He looks up from his computer and smiles at me. "Morning, babe."
I try to smile back, but my face feels tight and strange. I sit down in the chair opposite him and take a deep breath.
"We need to talk," I say, my voice shaking slightly.
He leans back in his chair, studying me. "Okay," he says slowly. "What's...on your mind?"
I hesitate, not sure how to begin. I don't want to sound paranoid or jealous. I just want him to see what's happening.
"It's about Margaux," I say at last. "And how she's taking over my job."
His expression doesn't change. He nods, as if he expected this.
"Look, I know she's got good ideas," he says simply. "But she's not replacing you, Inés. We work together, as a team."
I feel a surge of anger rise up inside me. "No," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "We're not a team anymore. You're making decisions without me. Geoffrey is talking to her about the authors, not me."
He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "Geoffrey's just excited," he says, as if that explains everything. "He likes having someone new to talk to. It doesn't mean anything."
"But it does," I insist, leaning forward. "She's sitting in my office, reading my manuscripts. And you're letting her."
His brow furrows. "Inés," he says, his voice careful. "I love you. You're my wife, and my partner in this company. But Margaux is an asset. She knows the market; she knows what people want to read. If we don't keep up, we'll lose everything."
I shake my head, feeling the tears prick at my eyes. "I've kept this place running for nine years," I whisper. "And now, all of a sudden, you need her?" I blink back the tears. "What do you need me for?"
He looks hurt, as if I've wounded him. "You know that's not what I'm saying," he says quietly.
But I do know. And so does he.
We sit in silence for a moment. Finally, he stands up and walks around to me.
"Inés," he says, his voice gentle. "We're going through a rough patch, okay? But it's not you versus her. We're all on the same team here."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. He pulls me up from the chair and wraps his arms around me.
"I love you," he whispers into my hair. "Nothing is going to change that."
I want to believe him. I want to feel safe in his arms again. But as he holds me close, all I can think about is how fragile this moment is, how easily it could slip away.
"Ezra's excited she landed two French nonfiction authors he's been chasing for years," he murmurs into my ear, naming our nonfiction acquisitions editor. "You'll see. Once things settle down, everything will go back to normal."
I swallow hard and nod again, letting him kiss my temple.
"Maybe we move her office," he says. "If that would help."
I look up at him, surprised. He smiles. "I hear you," he says softly.
I feel a small rush of hope. Maybe things will get better, after all. Maybe I just needed to tell him how I felt.
But then the door opens, and Margaux walks in, holding a stack of papers. She stops short when she sees us, her eyes wide.
"Oh," she says, looking from me to Harrison. "Am I interrupting?"
He releases me slowly, stepping back. "No, it's fine. We were just talking about...the French authors you brought in."
She beams at him, completely ignoring me. "Yes, I have all the details here. Ezra is over the moon."
I watch as she hands him the papers, their heads close together as they go over the contract.
I feel my stomach twist. It's happening all over again. Right in front of me.
"Inés?" Harrison says, turning to me. "Did you want to weigh in on this?"
He looks genuinely surprised when I shake my head and walk out of the room without a word.
***
My mother-in-law's voice cuts through the room like a knife, making me jump.
"I must say," Cynthia says, looking around at the table with her cool, assessing gaze. "The Belford memoir is going to be a real winner. I was just talking to Harrison about it this morning, and we both agreed: it's the kind of book that will make waves."
She smiles at my husband, who beams back at her. They look like two co-conspirators, pleased with their own cleverness.
I sit there silently, my hands in my lap, trying to keep the smile on my face.
I know I should be happy for them—for Harrison, especially—but all I can think about is how it was my idea to acquire Belford's memoir in the first place.
I hate how selfish it makes me feel, but it's true.
And now, here I am, watching them take all the credit.
"And you," Cynthia continues, turning her attention to Margaux, who sits across from me at the dinner table. "I hear you've been a great help with the new French acquisitions."
Margaux blushes modestly, as if she's embarrassed by the praise. As if she hasn't been working overtime to push me out of every important conversation at L not like I am with Cynthia, in her own strange, impersonal way.
He's always been a quiet one, watching from the sidelines as his wife helps run things.
But now, looking at him standing there on the porch with his frail body and kind eyes, I feel a sudden urge to tell him everything.
But I can't. I can't be the one to drive a wedge between him and his son. So I just nod and force a smile.
"Just needed a break," I say quietly.
He nods, understanding. He comes over to stand next to me, leaning on his cane. "Cynthia can be...a lot sometimes," he says softly.
I laugh a little, despite myself. That's an understatement if I ever heard one.
"She's just trying to help," I reply, though even as the words leave my mouth, I don't believe them.
Wendell looks at me then, his gaze steady. "Maybe so," he says slowly. "But that doesn't mean it always feels that way."
I stare at him, a little surprised by the insight. I think he's right; I never really thought of it like that before. Cynthia's 'help' often feels more like criticism or condescension; sharp little jabs with no intent but malice.
"She loves Harrison," Wendell continues, as if he can read my thoughts. "She wants what's best for him. But sometimes..." He shakes his head, looking away for a moment. "Sometimes she forgets about the rest of us."
I know exactly what he means.
He sighs and pats my shoulder gently. "Just don't let it get to you, kiddo," he says with a sad smile. "You're doing good work here. We all see that, even if Cynthia doesn't always say so."
My eyes fill with tears, and I quickly blink them away. It's the closest thing to real validation I've heard from anyone in this family in a long time. And coming from Wendell, who never says much of anything...it means more than he could know.
"Thanks," I whisper, my voice thick with emotion.
He nods and starts to make his way back inside. But then he stops and turns to me again.
"And Inés?" he says quietly. "Don't let anyone take away what's yours. Not even family."
And with that, he goes back inside, leaving me alone on the porch, his words roiling in my mind.
***
When I get home later that night, Harrison is already in bed, his back to me. I crawl in beside him, my body tense. The last thing I want is to be touched right now.
But then he turns over and looks at me with those sad puppy-dog eyes of his. "I'm sorry," he says softly.
I sigh, not wanting to fight anymore. "It's fine," I mutter, turning away from him.
He puts a hand on my shoulder, gently turning me back to face him. "No, it's not fine," he says. "I know things have been rough lately. And I know my mother can be...difficult."
I raise an eyebrow at that, but he doesn't smile. He looks serious, almost vulnerable.
"I want you to know," he continues quietly. "You are important to me. To us. You're my partner, Inés. I couldn't do any of this without you."
And then he leans in and kisses me. Softly at first, then harder, like he's trying to prove something. Like if he just loves me enough, everything else will fall into place.
I kiss him back, despite my better judgment. Despite the little voice in my head screaming that this isn't enough, that I deserve more than empty words and desperate kisses.
But it's all so familiar. This dance we do. The push and pull between us. The way I let him get away with things because I'm scared of losing him.
He pulls back, looking into my eyes. "I love you," he whispers, like it's the answer to everything.
And I want to believe him, so badly. I want to believe that this is enough, that I can keep going like this.
But as he kisses me again and his hands start to wander over my body, I can't help but feel like something is missing.
Like we're just playing roles, going through the motions because it's what we're supposed to do.
I close my eyes and let him undress me, trying to ignore the voice telling me this isn't real. That maybe it never was.
Afterward, as he falls asleep beside me, I lie there staring at the ceiling, feeling more alone than ever. I reach for my phone, hoping to find some kind of comfort in the familiar glow. But what I find instead makes my heart stop.
It's an old photo album, one I haven't looked at in years. Pictures of Harrison and me from when we first started dating. I scroll through, my fingers trembling as I see us smiling and laughing together, so young and in love.
And then, a photo catches my eye that shouldn't be there. A picture of Harrison and Margaux, arms around each other at some party, their faces flushed with laughter. They look happy. Too happy.
I stare at the photo, feeling sick. Why would he have kept this?
As I keep scrolling, I realize I'm in an old album shared between him and Margaux, one that she was posting pictures to at the time of his birthday trip to the Hudson Valley.
And there's more; so many more. Snapshots of them together throughout the years, before me and even after we'd started dating. There are even a few from when we were married. Trips to author conferences and dinners where she's by his side, looking like she belongs there.
I don't know why he kept these pictures. But I do know that they hurt, like a knife twisting in my chest. Because they remind me of something I've tried to ignore for too long:
No matter what he says, no matter how many times he tells me he loves me, there will always be a part of Harrison that belongs to Margaux. A history I can never touch or understand. A bond I can never break.
And that realization terrifies me.