1. Margo #3
“The Waltons confirmed their investment,” I repeat, echoing his words from the phone call. “Congratulations. I didn’t realize there were Waltons.”
“It’s been in the works for months. I’m sure I mentioned…”
“You didn’t.”
He pauses and processes. I can almost see him calculating how much trouble he’s in, running the numbers on the fastest way out of this conversation.
“I apologize,” he says carefully. “The deal has been complicated, and I didn’t want to burden you with the details until everything was finalized.
The Waltons are an old family. They’ve been in shipping for generations.
Their investment gives us the capital we need to begin construction on the second flagship, which means… ”
“Sebastian.”
My voice is very quiet.
He stops talking.
I hold up the itinerary, that single piece of paper that weighs more than anything I’ve ever held, and watch his face as he recognizes what it is.
“Who is Therese Walton?”
The silence stretches between us, almost solid.
I can hear Sandy’s soft breathing from the sofa.
I can hear the faint hum of the ship’s engines far below us, that constant vibration that reminds you you’re floating on two billion dollars’ worth of steel and glass and ambition.
I can hear my own heartbeat, steady and slow, as if my body has decided to stay calm even though my mind is screaming.
“Therese is…” Sebastian clears his throat. “She’s the Waltons’ daughter. Charles Walton’s only heir, actually. She’s been instrumental in brokering this deal.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Margo…”
“I asked who she is. Not what she does.” I keep my eyes on him. “Five years, Sebastian. How is it possible I’ve never once heard this woman’s name? But today, she sounds like a very important person in your life.”
He’s still holding his phone, I notice. Still standing by the door as if he’s calculating his escape route.
My husband, the man who promised to love and cherish me in front of a church full of guests and a Greek Orthodox priest, can’t even look me in the eye.
“Our families have known each other for a long time,” he says finally. “Since before I was born. Therese and I… we grew up together. Summer vacations, mostly. Our parents were close.”
“And?”
“And nothing. We’re friends. Old friends. She’s been incredibly helpful with the investment negotiations, and my mother suggested we honor that contribution by naming her godmother of the vessel. It’s ceremonial, Margo. It doesn’t mean anything.”
I let that sit for a moment.
His mother suggested. Right, as always, she did.
“Were you going to tell me?” I ask. “Before I saw her name on this itinerary, were you going to mention that some woman I’ve never heard of would be standing up there tomorrow playing a ceremonial role in our family’s ship?”
“I assumed you knew. I thought…”
“You assumed?”
I’m standing now, though I don’t remember getting up. Sandy stirs on the sofa and I lower my voice, because the last thing I need is my daughter waking up to her parents fighting.
“That’s the problem, Sebastian. You assume. You never tell me anything. Not the deal, not the Waltons, not her. I find out my own life from paperwork and printed schedules, and you look genuinely surprised that I mind.”
“Margo, I don’t understand what you want from me here.”
“Of course you don’t.”
“Then tell me. What things? What is it you think I’m not telling you?”
And there it is. He isn’t being cruel. He’s being sincere, which is so much worse, because the man I married is standing in front of me asking what he’s missed as if it’s a pop quiz he can pass the second I hand him the answer key.
“You don’t even know,” I say. “That’s the whole thing. You don’t notice enough to know what you’re not noticing.”
My eyes start to sting. I stare at him and blink it back, refusing to let it fall in front of him, because tears feel as though I’m conceding a point I’m not ready to lose.
He sees it anyway. His expression changes, the careful blankness giving way to a look that is almost close to concern, and he steps toward me, one hand lifting to reach for me.
I step back.
“Don’t.” My voice stays level. “I don’t want to be managed. I want to be told things. I want to be part of your world instead of a name someone forgot to add to the portrait. That’s all I’ve ever wanted, Sebastian. For you to be honest with me.”
He stops mid-step, hand still half-raised between us, and for a moment neither of us says anything.
I let the quiet stretch until I can trust my voice.
“So I’ll ask you again.”
I look at him.
“Who is Therese Walton, Sebastian? And why am I finding out she exists from a piece of paper?”
He doesn’t answer right away. His mouth opens, closes, and I watch him search for the version of the truth that will cost him the least.
I stand there in the middle of a suite that isn’t mine, on a ship that isn’t mine, in a life that stopped feeling like mine somewhere along the way, and I wait to find out exactly how much my husband is willing to lie to me.
And it hurts, that quiet ache behind my ribs, because I’m standing on the most expensive ship ever built, and I’m the only one who can feel the two of us sinking.