Chapter 40
Striding through the foyer, I found the housekeepers lined up in two neat rows, their eyes lowered in respect. I walked past them without a word until I reached the end of the line. Then I stopped, glanced over my shoulder, and slowly turned to face them.
"Everyone's dismissed for tonight," I announced, my voice low and tight. "Go back to your quarters. I'll call if I need any of you."
Right now, I don't want anyone's company. I want to be alone. To punch something. To yell. To scream. My heart burned so badly it almost felt like fire.
They bowed quickly and scattered to their quarters.
Silence swallowed the house. Only when I'm sure I'm alone do I head down to the cellar and pull out The Macallan 72 Years Old in Lalique and a frosted bottle of Billionaire Vodka—spirits strong enough to drown me into oblivion.
"Damn it, Sol," I whispered to myself as I twisted the vodka cap and gulped.
The sting slid down my throat like a blade.
I coughed, groaned at the burn, then wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.
A hollow laugh broke out of me as I leaned on the bar counter, palms flat, knuckles white.
I loosened my tie and took another pull from the bottle. I didn't know what wore me out more: the travel it took to get home to her, or the sight of her with Margot. Either way, both had pulverized whatever patience I still had.
Each gulp constricted my chest. My heart hammered so hard it felt like my whole body was throbbing, heat crawling beneath my skin.
Breathing raggedly, I shrugged off my coat and dropped it on the counter. A faint engine roars somewhere outside; I froze, but then lifted the bottle again. A soft chime from the front door echoes through the halls. I don't look. I already know who it is.
The vodka's halfway to my lips when I hear the click of her heels on the floor. "Ro..." Her voice is hoarse, cracking.
My eyes met hers as I drank. I didn't bother looking away.
Sloane ran her trembling fingers through her hair as she took a step toward me. "Ro, please. Listen to me," she said.
I slammed the bottle onto the counter so hard that the sound echoed off the stone walls. "How long has it been going on?" My voice is a low snarl, trembling with something I don't want to name.
She shook her head, a bitter chuckle slipping out as she stepped toward me. "Nothing's going on with us, Ro. Please—just listen to me."
"So what is it then, Sol?" My words come out like broken glass. "Coincidence? You and Margot in the same suite, practically naked in robes, all warm and cozy?" I jabbed a finger at her, my pulse hammering.
She rubbed her temples, trying to steady herself. "If something happened between me and Margot, do you really think I'd text you to come pick me up? Can you please think rationally?"
I laughed, a harsh, humorless sound that bounced back at me.
"Rationally?" My hand tightened around the neck of the bottle.
"Are you seriously blaming me for being irrational right now, Sol?
Are you for real?" I took another long swallow of vodka, the burn like acid down my throat.
"You're the one I saw. You're the one in a suite with someone else, wearing nothing but a robe.
And you—" I stepped closer, my voice a whisper edged with venom—"you're a married woman, yet there you are, parading your body for someone else. "
Her palm cracked against my cheek. The sound startled us both. My head whipped to the side, but what I see in her eyes when I look back isn't defiance—it's pain.
My lips trembled. For a heartbeat, I want to hurt her back, to make her feel what's inside me. My hand rises before I even realize it, but she closes her eyes, bracing for a blow that never comes.
Instead, I turned the violence on myself. My palm connected with my own face—once, twice, then again. Harder each time. The sting blooms and spreads until I'm dizzy, but I don't stop. Tears blur my vision, streaming hot and fast.
"Ro!" Her voice broke as she reached for me. "Aurora! Stop!"
I shoved her off and kept going, alternating slaps until my skin felt raw. "Why?" Another slap. "Why would you choose her?" Another. "Am I not enough?"
Sloane lunged, grabbing my wrists in a grip that's firm but trembling. She's crying now, too. "Ro, stop it," she hissed, her voice splintering under the weight of her own pain.
I wrenched my wrists free from her grip and seized the bottle, hurling it at the wall.
It exploded in a glittering burst of glass, vodka running down the plaster like tears.
I strode after it and slammed both fists into the wall.
Once. Twice. The sting in my knuckles barely registers; the pain felt like nothing compared to what's inside me.
I shouldn't be doing this. I know how long it took me to heal. But I need something—anything—to stop this pressure in my chest from suffocating me.
"Ro! Aurora, stop! Please," Sloane's voice cracked, her sobs spilling into the air. She wrapped her arms around me from behind, trying to restrain me, pulling me back from the wall.
My face is numb. My hands are worse. I let them fall limp at my sides, tilt my head back, and laugh, a sound halfway between a choke and a sob. "Why her, Sol?" My voice is raw as I peel her arms off my body and step out of reach.
When I turned to face her, her face was blotched and wet with tears. She shook her head, trembling. "Ro, you need to understand..."
"Understand what?" I snapped. My voice ricochets off the cellar walls like a gunshot. "Understand that you needed someone to fuck you while I'm gone? Is that it?"
"For fuck's sake, Aurora! Nothing happened!" she screamed, her voice shredding as tears streaked down her face. She reached for me again, but I backed away, one step, then another.
"Don't touch me." My voice dropped into a warning growl. "You disgust me."
My words made her flinch. She let out a low, bitter laugh and bowed her head, her shoulders trembling. "Ro..." she murmured, a whisper like broken glass. "Out of all the people, you know me better than anyone else."
"Do I really know you better than anyone else, Sol?
" I asked, tears blurring my vision. "Because.
.." I gasped, struggling for air. "Because the moment you stepped back into my life, all you've said is that you wanted revenge.
From the embezzlement to... to this—what is this still, if not revenge?
" My laugh shook my shoulders, mingling with sobs.
"What's this, Sol? Did you choose Margot to be your sidepiece? "
She opened her mouth to protest, but I raised my hand, cutting her off.
I wiped my palm across my face and swallowed hard.
"Right, maybe I'm wrong." My voice cracked.
"You said before that if you dated someone else while we're married, you'd give them all your time.
So... is this it? Margot... you're dating her? Am I really the sidepiece?"
"That's not—" she started, then stopped herself, exhaling sharply. "Can you even hear yourself, Ro? We have a daughter together!"
"Exactly!" I snapped, pointing at her. "We have a daughter who's a teenager, and yet her mother is here, parading like she's single, like she isn't married at all!"
"Oh gosh!" Sloane groaned, wiping her face with her palms. She stepped closer, hands raised in surrender. "Ro, please... can you stop being unreasonable and try to understand my side?"
"Oh, I understand perfectly!" I shot back. "Margot likes you! She wants you! And yet you keep going with her as if I wasn't already insecure enough that you hide her identity... all because she's intersex!"
"That!" she pointed at me, eyes flashing. "That's the problem with you, Ro! How many times do I have to tell you? I only see Margot as a sister. Nothing more!"
"Nothing more?" I snapped, stepping closer. "Nothing more, yet here you are—showering with her, sharing a suite, while I'm left standing outside!"
Sloane exhaled sharply, then grabbed my collar and yanked me toward her, crushing our lips together.
Her teeth bit into my lower lip until the metallic taste of blood spread across my tongue.
A groan escaped me as she pulled back, tears still streaming down her cheeks.
"How many times do I have to tell you, Ro?" she sniffled, her voice trembling.
I stood frozen, staring at her. She wiped her tears away with the heel of her hand and let out a broken laugh. "I carried your child for nine months, I raised her, I took care of her alone, and yet you look at me like I'm filth—as if I'm not even your wife."
"Leave." My voice was flat, dead. I pointed at the empty hallway. "Leave me alone."
"Ro..." Sloane's fingers loosened on my collar, her face lowering toward mine.
"I said leave!" My voice cracked like a whip.
I wanted to tear the whole house apart, to hurl every object within reach. I felt like I was being gaslighted, manipulated, like everything inside me—every ache, every suspicion—was being mocked as invalid and meaningless.
"Alright." Sloane swallowed hard, forcing a faint smile as her trembling hands cupped my face. Her thumbs rubbed over my cheeks, already raw from tears and self-slaps. "Alright. I'll leave you for now. But please... please call me once you cool down."
I didn't respond. I stood there like stone, staring past her, refusing to meet her eyes.
"Ro..." she whispered. "Please. Send me anything when you've calmed down, and I'll explain everything about what happened. Please?" Her voice cracked on the last word, small and breaking.
My hands shook as I pried her hands from my face. "Leave. Now." My voice was low, final. "I don't want to see you. Get the hell out of this house."
?·???°???°???·?
Standing inside the elevator, I exhaled slowly as the doors began to slide shut—only for them to jolt open again.
And there she was. Sloane. Her face froze when she saw me, the faintest flicker of something—regret, longing, maybe defiance—crossing her eyes.
My chest tightened, but I forced my expression blank.
"Are you coming in?" I asked flatly, stepping aside.
She cleared her throat, wordless, and stepped inside. She positioned herself at the far side of the elevator, leaving an invisible gulf between us, close enough for me to feel her presence but distant enough to keep me clawing at restraint.
It had been a week since we last spoke. A week of silence. A week of pretending she didn't exist. Yet now, she was here, only a few feet away, and the air between us felt sharp enough to cut.
I shoved my hands into my pockets, my nails digging into my palms as the seconds dragged on. The elevator hummed softly, but to me it sounded like a scream. Every breath echoed. Every shift of her weight felt like a provocation.
When the elevator chimed and the doors slid open, I bolted out, refusing to glance back. My stride was sharp, each step echoing like a verdict as I made straight for the boardroom.
I dropped into the chair at the head of the table, the symbol of control I desperately clung to, while directors trickled in, their murmurs filling the sterile air.
Then the sound of heels clicked against marble.
I didn't need to look up. I already knew.
Sloane entered, her presence pressing against me like a storm cloud. I shuffled the papers before me, keeping my gaze fixed, pretending her existence was irrelevant even as every nerve in my body screamed the opposite.
The review began. Numbers. Charts. Applause dressed as polite commentary.
"That's impressive, Ms. Aurora," one of the directors said warmly, his gaze flitting between me and Sloane.
"The strategies that both you and Ms. Duvall laid out regarding the international partnerships have clearly borne fruit.
The company is thriving—better than ever, even compared to pre-crisis levels. "
Agreement rippled around the table, a chorus of approval. I forced myself to nod once, expression composed. My fingers tapped my pen once against the paper, then stilled.
But inside, I felt like the silence of the elevator had followed us here, and it was only a matter of time before it shattered.
"Thank you," Sloane said smoothly, though her eyes gleamed with fire.
"But this is only the beginning. We need to move beyond numbers.
The world is watching, and public trust is everything.
That's why—since I have the right to invoke any proposal—I propose an initiative.
An outreach program. A foundation under the company's name, tied to sustainable fashion and education.
It will not only elevate our public image but also set a precedent for future generations. "
The board shifted, nodding, some directors leaning forward with clear interest.
I couldn't help the chuckle that slipped out—quiet, sharp, cutting. Of course she'd play the savior in front of them. I let the sound hang in the room, then spoke, my voice making every head turn.
"Absolutely not."
The murmur of approval died instantly.
Sloane raised a brow, finally meeting my gaze after weeks of avoidance. Her lips parted in disbelief, then curved into something sharper. "Excuse me?" she scoffed. "Since when did I ever need your approval for this?"
I leaned back in my chair, my tone deceptively calm, though my jaw locked with suppressed rage. "This company—my company—is not a stage for sentimentality. We are not here to parade charity when our focus should be strengthening our core investments."
Sloane's posture stiffened, her composure cracking around the edges. "Charity?" she repeated, incredulous. "This is strategy. Public reputation drives markets, Aurora. Our brand doesn't exist in a vacuum. You'd know that if—" She stopped herself, but too late.
The silence after her stumble was knife-sharp.
My eyes narrowed, my voice dropping into something low and dangerous. "If what, Ms. Duvall?"
She met my stare, something raw flickering in her eyes before her words lashed out. "If you could see beyond your pride."
Her tone was too raw, too personal for the boardroom, and the air shifted immediately. Murmurs rippled among the directors, glances darting between me and Sloane as though they were witnessing a fracture widen in real time.
Sloane didn't stop.
She pressed on, her voice breaking through the weight of the silence.
"Not everything is about controlling the numbers.
Sometimes it's about showing the world that we are more than cold ledgers and profit margins.
Or perhaps..." her voice dipped, soft, cutting, "you've forgotten what the world outside your spreadsheets even looks like. "
My hands curled into fists on the table, though my voice remained controlled, lethal.
"What I haven't forgotten is how easily appearances deceive.
Perhaps you, Ms. Duvall, of all people, should be careful when speaking of reputation.
" I let my tone drop to a blade's edge. "I understand you hold half the shares, and you have the right to propose.
But need I remind you—" I leaned forward, eyes locking on hers, "I still own this company. "
The meaning struck hard between us, cutting deeper than the polished words allowed. Sloane froze, her breath caught, but then her chin rose with stubborn defiance.
"At least I fight for something," she said, her voice trembling but fierce. "Even if it makes me the villain in your eyes."
I let the silence stretch, my gaze lingering on her a second longer before I turned deliberately toward the board. "Everyone, Ms. Duvall's proposal is rejected. DeLacroix Couture and Luxury House will not be involved in anything of that nature."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Uneasy glances rippled around the table, directors caught between admiration for her passion and the iron weight of my authority.
And in that moment, I knew—between the two of us, the gulf had grown wider than ever.
"Meeting adjourned."
Chairs scraped softly against the floor. The directors filed out, careful, measured, throwing sidelong glances at us as if afraid to be caught in the fallout. Sloane and I stayed seated, unmoving, statues across the battlefield until the last door clicked shut.
I rose first, gathering my documents with sharp, precise motions. I didn't look at her. I didn't have to. The air between us was already heavy enough.
Her heels struck the marble like gunfire as she followed. The echo chased me down the corridor until her hand caught my wrist, jerking me to a stop.
"Enough of this, Aurora," she hissed, her grip tight, trembling with fury. "You humiliated me in there."
I turned slowly, eyes flashing as I tore my wrist free. "I said what needed to be said. Don't mistake rejection for humiliation, Sloane."
She took a step closer, refusing to back down. "Don't play it cold. This isn't about the foundation, is it? This is about her again. For God's sake, Ro, it's been what? Days? Weeks?"
My breath caught, chest tightening until it hurt. "You're the one who stayed in a hotel suite with Margot, and you dare stand right here accusing me?" I scoffed, heat rising in my voice. "You're the one who walked out of our home."
Her jaw clenched; hurt flashed across her face before anger scorched over it.
"You're the one who told me to leave! You think I wanted any of that?
You think I—" she stopped, biting down her words, then spat them out anyway.
"You never even asked me. You just assumed and threw me out like I meant nothing to you. "
I swallowed hard, rage shimmering in my eyes but something raw trembling beneath it. "What was I supposed to assume, Sol? I saw you—under your robe, Margot with you in your suite—"
"She was drunk!
" Sloane snapped, voice cracking. "She vomited on me, I showered, that's it!
But no, you'd already written the story in your head.
Convenient, isn't it? It's easier to blame me than to face what's happening between us. That's what you are, Aurora."
I stiffened, her words pressing too close to the truth. My voice dropped, soft but colder for it. I gave a faint smile without warmth. "What's happening between us, Sol, is that... I can't trust you anymore."
Sloane stared at me a moment too long, then laughed bitterly. "No, Aurora. What's happening is that you're breaking us yourself. You keep secrets, you build walls, and then you punish me when I try to knock on the door."
My mask slipped; pain flickered across my face before I turned away, ready to leave. Sloane caught my arm again, her grip trembling, her voice breaking.
"You said you love me.
Then show it. Show it right here, right now.
Don't just sit on your throne and dictate every damn thing like the rest of us are pawns.
" Her eyes shone with unshed tears. "Fight for us, Aurora.
For once, please, fight for me instead of against me. "
I ripped my arm free, chest pounding, body rigid. I turned to face her, searching her eyes. Fight for her? I almost laughed.
"Sloane.
.." I called out, giving her the faintest smile I could muster.
"I've been fighting all my life, and you would never understand that.
" My throat burned as I dragged my fingers through my hair.
"Maybe... just maybe... I'm tired of fighting everything. I'm tired of fighting you most of all."
I didn't wait for her response. I left her standing there. I was tired of trying to catch her attention. Tired of carrying the weight for both of us. Just... tired.
My steps were fast, deliberate, until I reached my office. The door slammed behind me, the sound ricocheting off the glass walls. For a moment I stood frozen, hands braced on the edge of my desk, shoulders rigid, chest heaving shallow, uneven breaths.
I turned to the window. My reflection stared back—sharp suit, unyielding posture, the mask of control I wear to hide the weakness inside. But the cracks were there: trembling lips, fists clenched too tight.
My hand slipped into my pocket, pulling out a small vial of medication.
It rattled softly between my shaking fingers as I uncapped it.
Two pills dropped into my palm. I stared at them, hesitating, like they're my salvation and curse at once—before dry-swallowing them.
The bitterness clung to my throat as I pressed my forehead against the cool glass.
"Get it together, Aurora," I whispered, voice hoarse.
But I couldn't. The argument replayed in my head, every word a blade.
The look in my wife's eyes—wounded, furious—tore through me like shrapnel.
I can't trust you anymore, Sol. I had said it to wound her, but the truth was worse: I couldn't even trust myself.
My body was betraying me cell by cell. Despite the therapy, despite everything, I knew I was running out of time.
My palm pressed flat to my chest. The ache there wasn't just physical. It was the gnawing dread of losing everything before I ever found the courage to hold on.
A knock startled me. Instinctively, my spine straightened, my mask sliding back into place like armor. "Come in," I said, my voice flat, practiced.
I glanced over my shoulder. Celeste stood in the doorway, a folder balanced in her hands. "The revised financials you asked for, Ms. Aurora."
I gave a small nod and turned back to the window, keeping my tone clipped. "Leave it on my desk, Celeste. Thank you."
The door clicked shut behind her. Silence returned, heavier than before.
I exhaled and crossed the room, sinking into my chair as though gravity itself had thickened. My eyes drifted to the drawer where I kept the photograph hidden—a candid shot of Sloane and Dione in our garden, sunlight spilling over them like a benediction.
I traced the edges of their smiles with trembling fingers. My throat tightened. I am fighting, Sol, I told myself. But how do you fight when your own body has already declared war on you?
The thought cracked something open. My vision blurred; the photograph dissolved into a wash of light and shadow. I let the tears fall, silent and unchecked, because for a moment there was no strength left to hold them in.