Chapter 5
EPHRAIM
The day had been exceptionally productive, the kind that makes you feel invincible.
The water rights deal I had been negotiating for months finally came together when the last holdout on the irrigation committee realized his opposition was futile.
I returned to the ranch house feeling the familiar satisfaction of dominance, of having bent another recalcitrant obstacle to my will.
It was what I was good at, what the Holt name had come to represent in Eastern Washington.
When someone stood against progress, they inevitably found themselves stepping aside.
As I pushed through the front door, my mind already on the next project, I expected to find Larkin preparing dinner, or at least ensuring the catering staff was setting up something impressive for us to eat.
It was the arrangement we had fallen into naturally over the years, she managed the household, I managed the empire.
The system worked, kept everything running efficiently.
So efficient, in fact, that it wasn’t until I set my keys on the entrance table that I noticed the unnatural quiet of the house.
No soft music coming from the living room, no clatter of dishes in the kitchen, none of the small domestic sounds that usually greeted me. Strange.
“Larkin?” I called out, moving through the vast, empty foyer toward the kitchen, my voice echoing slightly in a way that emphasized the absence. “I brought home the new vintage of that Oregon Pinot you liked. Thought we could celebrate the water agreement.”
No answer. A flicker of irritation sparked within me.
If she was out riding again without telling me, ignoring her household responsibilities for those damn rescue horses.
It didn’t help that I couldn’t smell food being prepared in the kitchen either.
She knew I hated coming home to an empty house after a long day.
As I rounded the corner into the kitchen, I was brought up short by the unexpected sight of an empty room, no staff bustling about, no dinner preparations underway.
There weren’t even dirty dishes in the sink.
Instead, the kitchen looked almost too clean, as if it hadn’t been used all day. What the hell?
“Larkin,” I called out again, louder this time, as if volume could somehow produce a response where the first attempt had failed. “You here?”
It was then that I noticed it, sitting there on the polished granite island as if placed with deliberate intention.
Her wedding ring. I stared at it for a long moment, the simple gold band glinting under the kitchen’s recessed lighting.
My first thought, embarrassingly, was that she had simply misplaced it while cleaning, though why she would have left it out instead of putting it with her other jewelry in our bedroom made no sense.
I reached for it, the metal cool against my fingertips.
Only as I lifted it did I notice the folded piece of paper beneath it, a single sheet of notepaper that looked distinctly out of place in our high-end kitchen with its imported appliances and granite countertops.
The paper was cheap, thin, the kind I’d seen in the back rooms of barns and equipment sheds, not the expensive stationery we kept in our office.
I unfolded it with hands that felt suddenly unsteady, the simplicity of the message hitting me with surprising force. Just one line in Larkin’s neat handwriting, the ink slightly smeared as if written quickly or in damp conditions.
I need to find myself again.
What the hell did that even mean? I read the words twice, then a third time, as if repetition might somehow make sense of what felt like a bizarre, melodramatic statement.
She was here. With me. Where she belonged.
What did she need to find that she didn’t already have?
A beautiful home, financial security, respect in our community, access to the finest things life could offer.
Women would kill for the life Larkin led, yet she felt the need to “find herself” somewhere else?
My confusion quickly morphed into anger, hot and sudden, rising in my chest like steam in a pressure cooker.
This was a tantrum, nothing more. An immature reaction to what had happened at Corrine’s place a few nights ago.
I could admit that perhaps I had been overly dismissive when she’d insisted on inserting her opinions into business discussions she barely understood.
But walking out? Leaving her ring behind as if it meant nothing?
That was unacceptable. It was disrespectful to our marriage, to our family legacy, to everything we had built together.
I crumpled the note in my fist, my fingers tightening around her wedding ring as if it could physically restrain her wherever she was.
She probably thought this dramatic gesture would force me to chase after her, beg her to come home, apologize for expecting her to play the role she had willingly accepted when she became Mrs. Holt.
Well, she would be waiting a long time for that to happen.
Determinedly, I stormed through the house, calling her name with growing volume, expecting her to emerge from somewhere, laughing about the prank she had pulled.
But each empty room, each silent hallway only confirmed what I didn’t want to acknowledge.
The house was deserted, not just of Larkin but of her things too.
When I finally checked our bedroom, the truth became undeniable.
Her walk-in closet stood open, clothes still hanging neatly on one side, but with a significant gap where her everyday wear usually hung.
I pushed the hanging garments aside, revealing empty hangers, space where her favorite blouses, the jeans she wore on casual Fridays, her riding gear had been carefully arranged.
My own wardrobe filled the other side of the closet, untouched, unchanged, a stark reminder that I had come home alone to a marriage where one partner had apparently decided to simply remove herself from the equation.
On her vanity, her jewelry box lay open, several pieces missing but not her most valuable items. She had been methodical, taking what was personal to her but leaving behind the expensive gifts I’d given her over the years.
The implication was clear, this wasn’t about money or material things.
This was something else entirely, something I couldn’t immediately understand, which only fueled my frustration further.
I pulled out my phone, my thumbs hovering over the contact list before realizing how rarely I actually called Larkin.
Our communication was usually in person or via text about practical matters.
I hadn’t needed to track her down in years because she was always where I expected her to be, when I expected her to be there.
The realization only deepened my anger, the sense that she had somehow deceived me, maintained a hidden part of herself while playing the part of my supportive wife.
I found her number and pressed dial, listening as it rang through to voicemail almost immediately. Either her phone was off, which was unusual, or she had deliberately declined my call. I hung up without leaving a message, unwilling to play this game of whatever she thought she was accomplishing.
As I stood in the middle of our bedroom, the space feeling cavernous and cold without her presence, I tried to organize my thoughts.
People would wonder where she was, would notice her absence.
I needed to control the narrative before gossip started spreading through our community.
This was no time for emotions. This was a business problem that required a strategic solution.
I walked back downstairs to the kitchen, her ring and crumpled note still in my hand.
I smoothed out the paper, rereading those infuriating words once more.
She needed to find herself? Fine. She could take as much time as she needed, but when she realized that the “herself” she was looking for was actually right here, in this life she had walked away from, I would make damn sure she understood the consequences of abandoning her responsibilities so recklessly.
For now, I would maintain composure. There was no point in creating more drama than necessary.
The Holt Empire wouldn’t collapse because my wife had decided to take a vacation from her own life.
I would manage as I always had, efficiently and without unnecessary emotional entanglements.
That had always been my strength, my ability to see what needed to be done and do it without sentiment getting in the way.
I placed her ring and the note in the drawer of my desk, locking it away where such sentimental nonsense belonged.
I then poured myself a much-needed drink, the scotch burning down my throat as I stared out the window at the valley spread before me, the valley that Holt Enterprises controlled, that I had expanded beyond what my father and grandfather had ever dreamed possible.
She would come back, I told myself, watching the stars begin to appear in the darkening sky above the mountains.
Where else would she go? What could she possibly find out there that she couldn’t have here with me?
This was just a phase, an emotional response to pressure she had been under lately with the increasing social demands of our position.
She needed space, and I would give it to her.
But make no mistake, this was my house, my ranch, my life, and when she returned, we would have a very clear conversation about roles and expectations.