Chapter 9
ROURKE
For a few seconds, I forget.
My hand moves across the bed before my eyes open, searching for warm skin, tangled hair, the curve of Mallory’s waist under the sheet.
The sheet is cold.
I open my eyes.
Her side of the bed is smooth except for one shallow crease where her body should have been. No pillow dent. No hair tie on the nightstand. No glass of water with her lipstick on the rim.
Then I remember.
The suitcase.
The photograph.
The watch on the island.
Her voice at the elevator.
I won’t be here tomorrow.
I am out of bed before the sentence finishes inside my skull.
“Mallory?”
The penthouse answers me with silence.
I check the bathroom first, because I'm still holding onto hope. Empty counter. Empty hook where her robe should be. No toothbrush beside mine. No small bottle of face oil she once told me cost too much, right before using one careful drop like it was medicine.
The closet is worse.
Half-empty doesn’t look like half-empty in a space this large. It looks deliberate.
Her everyday clothes are gone. Sweaters. Jeans. The soft shirts she wore when she thought no one needed her dressed for a room. The old market apron is gone from the shelf.
The gowns remain in their garment bags.
The jewelry drawers still glitter when I open them. Diamonds. Gold. Emeralds I bought because someone told me they were rare. Dresses chosen for dinners, galas, photographs. Things that made sense in my world.
She left them.
She took the apron.
I stand in the center of the closet with one hand braced against the island of drawers, breathing too fast.
She left.
She’ll come back.
She has to come back.
This is anger. Shock. A line drawn in pain. She loves me. Last night, her hands were in my hair. Her mouth opened under mine. She said she loved me.
She left after that.
The thought doesn’t fit anywhere.
So I make a list.
Flowers first. Not ordinary flowers. Something impossible to ignore. White peonies. Garden roses. Something wild-looking, because Mallory likes flowers that seem as if they grew where they wanted.
Then I pick up my phone and search for the most exclusive florist in the city.
No. That's not enough.
A trip. The coastal suite. Move it up. No calls. No Ridgeline. Dinner on the beach where I first saw her laughing at my cuff links like I was any other man. Replace the watch.
No.
Destroy the watch.
Cancel today. Cancel tomorrow. Give her enough time to calm down, but not enough time to think I’m letting her go.
I call her.
Voicemail.
Again.
Voicemail.
I draft a new text.
Tell me where you are.
Delete. No. Too sharp.
We need to talk.
Send.
Nothing happened with Jocelyn.
Send.
I can fix this.
Send.
Please come home.
My thumb hovers over the last message, then sends it before pride can get its hands around my throat.
Security knows nothing. The night staff saw Mrs. Carmichael leave with a suitcase. She was alone. She asked them not to call a car. They thought I knew where she was going.
Of course they did.
I know everything, right?
I know land values before sellers do. I know investor nerves from one line in an email. I know when a deal is turning before anyone else feels the ground move.
I don't know where my wife slept last night.
By nine, I’m on the executive floor because the penthouse has too many rooms, and every room has her missing from it.
Beatrice is already at her desk.
She takes one look at me and sets down her pen.
“Did Mallory leave?”
Any other day, I might be surprised she can read me so easily.
“It’s temporary.”
The words come out too fast.
Beatrice says nothing.
I drag a hand through my hair. I showered. I think I showered. My shirt is buttoned wrong at the cuff.
“Mallory misunderstood the situation," I say, almost mechanically. "She'll come around."
“Did she? And will she?”
“Nothing happened.” My voice cuts the air too hard. “The seller left before the storm worsened. Jocelyn and I worked in the lodge for a few hours. We slept in separate cabins. I omitted details because I didn’t want to upset her over something that meant nothing.”
"Sounds like that worked out well," Beatrice says before opening the top drawer of her desk and removing a small black notebook.
I stare at it.
“Not the damned notebook again.”
“It’s a record.”
“Of what?”
“Of the times I watched you fail your wife.”
“Beatrice.”
She opens the notebook anyway.
“March twelfth. Mallory had the flu. Fever, chills, couldn’t keep tea down. Jocelyn requested a lunch meeting about spa positioning that could have been moved. You left Mallory alone for five hours.”
“She told me to go.”
“She was sick, and you left.”
My jaw tightens. “She said she was fine.”
Beatrice looks down. “April eighteenth. You promised to be home by seven. Mallory cooked dinner herself. You came home after midnight.”
“I was working.”
“Yes.” She turns the page. “Your anniversary. Two months ago. You asked Niles to select the gift. He chose the emerald set. You had it delivered with a card he drafted.”
I remember the emeralds.
Mallory wore them that night. She thanked me for them.
I don't remember the card.
Something cold moves under my ribs.
“She liked them,” I say.
“She liked you,” Beatrice says. “She forgave the emeralds.”
I look away.
She doesn’t let me.
“May twenty-sixth. Gala prep. Mallory worked sixteen hours. Jocelyn stood beside you during the investor walkthrough while Mallory prevented a mishap with housekeeping that could have derailed it. June fourth. Mallory left the rooftop gala alone while you remained with Jocelyn. June fifth. I warned you not to create a secret with Jocelyn at Ridgeline. You did it anyway.”
The office walls feel closer than they were a minute ago.
“Ridgeline was complicated.”
“Mallory asked whether the seller stayed, didn't she?" Beatrice asks, once again looking over the top of her glasses at me. "And you didn't answer her truthfully.”
“I was trying to avoid making it look worse than it was.”
Beatrice’s eyes lift. “And how did it look when she found the photograph?”
My mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
The photograph flashes behind my eyes. Firelight. Jocelyn beside me. My sleeves rolled. My face too relaxed. Mallory’s phone on the kitchen island. Her voice asking why betrayal only counted if someone took off their clothes.
Beatrice reads again.
“June sixth. You wore Jocelyn’s engraved watch home.”
I close my eyes.
For the man who carries everything. J.
“It was a thank-you gift,” I say.
The defense has no weight now. It drops between us and lies there.
“Mallory saw another woman claim knowledge of your private burdens,” Beatrice says. “Then she watched you fasten that claim around your wrist.”
My stomach turns. I close my eyes as I remember telling her I didn't want to appear rude to Jocelyn by not wearing it.
Never once considering how the woman I loved might feel about it.
Self-loathing spreads through my veins like poison.
Mallory’s reading glasses had been beside the watch.
They're gone now.
Her glasses. Her apron. Her ordinary clothes.
Not the emeralds.
Not the gowns.
I grip the edge of Beatrice’s desk. “Why didn’t you say all this before?”
“If you recall, I tried.” Beatrice closes the notebook. “But the fact remains, I shouldn’t have to be the keeper of your marriage.”
“Jocelyn has never taken Mallory’s place,” I say.
Beatrice’s expression doesn’t change.
“She is my wife. Jocelyn is an executive. A colleague. A friend.”
“That distinction may be flawless inside your head,” Beatrice says. “It hasn't been flawless in your behavior.”
I flinch at the word.
Behavior.
Not intentions. Not explanations. Not the version I meant.
Behavior.
“Jocelyn stands at your elbow during public events. She speaks for you. She arranges your meals. She manages your moods. She travels with you. She shares late nights and private jokes. She presents herself as the woman who understands you best, and you let Mallory watch from outside it.”
“I never meant for it to be like that.”
“You know what they say about roads and good intentions.” Beatrice’s mouth barely moves. “Your road just happened to get flooded.”
I see the gala. Burgundy silk. Jocelyn’s hand on my sleeve. Mallory twenty feet away in the service corridor with a headset and tired eyes.
Beatrice looks toward the windows.
“I overheard Jocelyn after Ridgeline. She told someone the seller mistook the two of you for husband and wife.”
My chest goes still.
“She said that?”
“She found it amusing.”
“The seller was wrong. I corrected them on the spot."
“Why was the mistake possible?”
“He saw two people working closely.”
“Mallory saw the same thing every day.”
I step back from the desk.
Beatrice’s voice softens by one degree, which somehow hurts worse.
“If you truly love your wife?—”
“I do.”
It tears out of me.
I do.
Since the bachelorette weekend. Since she took one look at me and laughed at my cuff links. Since she made me hold a ridiculous scavenger hunt card while she accused me of being too polished for sand. Since she treated me like a man instead of a name.
“I love her,” I say again. "God, Beatrice, I love the woman."
There is absolutely nothing about those words that is not true.
Beatrice waits.
Then she says, “If you love your wife, then absolutely no other woman should be able to impersonate her. Not deliberately. Not accidentally. Not even for five minutes in the eyes of a stranger.”
I see it all with disgusting, perfect clarity, and that self-loathing spreads even further.
Jocelyn beside me at the gala.
Jocelyn fastening the watch around my wrist.
Jocelyn saying our secret.
Jocelyn telling me Mallory didn’t need to know every detail.
Mallory asking why Jocelyn had a vote in what my wife deserved.
My throat closes.
The mirror I'm looking in is crystal clear. And horrifying in its accuracy.
Not one photograph. Not one watch. Not one storm.
A pattern.
I let someone stand close enough to be mistaken for her.
Then I had the audacity to ask Mallory why she felt replaced.
The door opens.
Jocelyn enters without waiting to be called in. Her face is composed, but her eyes move quickly over me, over Beatrice, over the notebook on the desk.
“Rourke,” she says softly. “I heard.”
Beatrice closes the notebook with one finger marking the page.
I can feel her watching the exchange over the rim of her glasses.
Jocelyn steps closer.
Too close.
I notice because Beatrice made me notice. Because Mallory noticed first.
“I’m so sorry,” Jocelyn says. “You must be devastated.”
Jocelyn lowers her voice. “She’ll calm down. Mallory has never been comfortable with this world. The pressure, the scrutiny, the scale of it. Maybe leaving is her way of admitting she wanted something smaller.”
My head lifts.
“She wanted a life with me.”
“Of course,” Jocelyn says quickly. “I only mean you shouldn’t blame yourself for her inability to adapt. You carry so much. The company, the expansion, your father’s legacy. You need someone beside you who understands the demands of your position.”
Beatrice doesn’t move.
Jocelyn touches my arm.
“I’m here for you.”
I look at her hand. Perfect nails. Careful pressure. Placed exactly where comfort is supposed to go.
Suddenly, the world snaps into focus, as if it's been viewed through murky film and is suddenly coming into crystal clear clarity.
I step back.
Her hand falls.
For one raw second, satisfaction slips through the concern on her face.
Then it's gone.
“I need to be alone,” I say.
“Rourke—”
“Mallory was not my life’s inconvenience.” My voice comes out rough. “She was my life. Everything else was supposed to be built around her.”
The truth of it hits after I say it.
I built and built and built.
And left her outside the thing I claimed was for her.
Jocelyn’s mouth tightens. “You’re exhausted. We can talk later.”
“No,” I say. “We can’t.”
She looks at Beatrice, then back at me, unsettled by a line she's never had to see before.
When she leaves, the office feels colder.
I turn toward Beatrice’s desk.
My hands are not steady.
“Let me see the book.”
Beatrice hesitates, then gives me the notebook.
The pages are small. The dates are neat. The entries are worse because they are ordinary.
Dinner cold.
Gift outsourced.
Wife alone.
Wife waiting.
Wife unseen.
“These are only the moments I personally witnessed,” Beatrice says.
I look down at the ledger.
The real one is longer.
Mallory lived every entry.
I noticed almost none of them.
While I was counting acquisitions, revenue, signatures, victories, my marriage was keeping a tally of its own.