Chapter 2
GWEN
Bruised purple twilight of the Seattle summer evening bled through the floor-to-ceiling glass of our Belltown penthouse.
Down below, the city was a tangled grid of brake lights and restless energy, but up here, the atmosphere was perfectly still.
I stood by the massive windows overlooking Elliott Bay, watching the ferries carve white foam paths across the dark water.
I had spent the entire afternoon trying to curate a time machine.
Living in the vast, echoing mansion we had recently built on Lake Washington had fundamentally shifted the axis of our marriage.
That Medina estate was Reid’s trophy—a pristine, architectural marvel of concrete and glass designed to broadcast his success to the rest of the tech industry.
It was a place for hosting board members and throwing philanthropic galas.
It was not a home. I spent my days wandering its immaculate corridors, feeling like a curator in a museum where I wasn't allowed to touch the exhibits.
But this penthouse was different. We bought this sprawling loft space years ago, back when Reid’s battery company was just a daring startup and every dollar felt vital.
The aesthetic here was warm. It had a lived-in quality that the Medina estate could never replicate.
I had spent hours today opening the windows to let in the breeze, lighting the sandalwood candles he used to love, and setting the low, mid-century coffee table for dinner.
I hadn’t cooked. Instead, I had driven to the University District to pick up takeout from the cramped, perpetually busy Thai restaurant we practically lived on when Reid was a struggling engineering student.
An order of Pad Kee Mao and another of pineapple fried rice, both extra spicy, eaten straight from the white cardboard boxes.
It was a desperate, calculated gamble to remind my husband of the people we used to be before the billions, before the endless corporate strategy sessions, before the deafening silence that had settled over our marriage since Tuesday’s disastrous charity auction.
I needed to bridge the gap. I needed forty-eight hours of just us, stripped of the corporate stress.
The soft chime of the private elevator echoed through the open floor plan, signaling his arrival. My heart gave a sudden, hard thump against my ribs. I smoothed my hands down the denim of my jeans, deliberately rejecting the designer silk I was usually expected to wear, and walked toward the foyer.
The steel doors parted. Reid stepped off the elevator, his head bent downward, entirely absorbed in the glowing screen of his phone.
He had shed his suit jacket, carrying it hooked over one finger, and his white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar.
The sheer, overwhelming force of his ambition seemed to enter the room a full second before he did.
"Reid," I said softly.
He didn't look up, his thumb swiping rapidly across the glass screen. "The regional subsidies are tangled up in a municipal zoning dispute. We have to completely restructure the pitch for the Tacoma site before Monday, or the entire manufacturing rollout is dead in the water."
The familiar ache of rejection bloomed in my chest, dull and persistent. "I bought dinner. From Thai Tom. I thought we could open that bottle of wine we bought in Napa and just... talk. No business tonight."
Reid finally stopped walking. He lowered the phone, his dark eyes registering my presence, the jeans, the food boxes sitting on the coffee table, and the lit candles.
For a fraction of a second, a flicker of genuine regret crossed his sharp features, a fleeting glimpse of the man who used to look at me like I was the only thing that mattered.
Then, the corporate mask slammed back into place, rigid and unyielding.
"Gwen, I’m sorry. I really am.” The apology carried the brisk, efficient cadence of a boardroom dismissal. "But tonight is absolutely critical. We are facing a major fire, and I can't afford to lose a single hour. I told the executive steering committee to convene here."
The words hung in the air, disjointed and surreal. "Here? In the penthouse?"
"The offices are locked down for the weekend, and if the press catches wind that we’re holding emergency meetings, the market analysts will panic," Reid explained, his tone laced with defensive impatience. "This building is secure. The team is going to be here in fifteen minutes."
"You invited your entire team to our home on a Friday night without even asking me?" My voice trembled, betraying the tight grip I was trying to keep on my emotions. "I told you this morning that I needed this weekend for us. We desperately need a reset, Reid."
He dragged a hand through his dark hair, the gesture signaling his mounting frustration. "And I am trying to secure a deal that ensures the future of my entire company. The world doesn't stop turning just because you want to eat noodles and reminisce, Gwen. I need you to be adaptable."
Before I could articulate the profound depth of my betrayal, the elevator chimed a second time.
Reid turned toward the steel doors just as they glided open. Victoria Albright stepped into my home, and the temperature in the room seemingly plummeted.
Victoria wore a sharply tailored, bone-white jumpsuit that looked impossible to sit down in, a designer bag slung over her arm, and a Bluetooth earpiece tucked discreetly behind her ear.
Two younger executives trailed behind her, looking utterly exhausted, carrying thick stacks of architectural blueprints.
But it was the personnel trailing behind the executives that made my jaw clench. Three men in immaculate white chef's coats emerged from the elevator, hauling insulated steel transport boxes and sleek black serving trays.
"Reid, I got the updated topographical scans from the city planner," Victoria announced, her voice projecting effortlessly across the loft.
She didn't bother to knock or wait for an invitation to proceed past the foyer.
She marched directly into the center of the living area, her sharp eyes scanning the space with critical calculation.
She finally turned her gaze to me, her lips curving into a smile that was entirely devoid of warmth.
"Gwen. I hope you don't mind the intrusion.
Reid mentioned you were retreating to the city to decompress, so I took the liberty of handling the logistics for tonight.
I know how easily you get overwhelmed by the corporate hosting expectations. "
She snapped her fingers, directing the hired kitchen staff with the air of a monarch.
"Set up the carving stations on the kitchen island.
I want the charcuterie boards arranged on the sideboard, and immediately put the Sancerre on ice.
The executives have had a grueling week, and we need morale high. "
I watched, paralyzed by a sickening mix of fury and disbelief, as strangers flooded my kitchen. They began unpacking exorbitant, pretentious arrangements of food, completely overtaking the space I had painstakingly prepared.
Victoria walked over to the mid-century coffee table. She looked down at the takeout boxes from Thai Tom, her perfectly sculpted eyebrows knitting together in an expression of profound, theatrical confusion.
"What is this?" she asked, the question directed at Reid rather than me.
"Just some takeout," Reid muttered, already pulling a blueprint tube from one of his executives. He didn't even look at the table. "Move it to the kitchen."
Victoria let out a soft, patronizing sigh.
She picked up the cardboard boxes by the very tips of her manicured fingers, as if they were contaminated, and deposited them unceremoniously onto the counter, pushing them back into the corner behind the coffee machine.
She then turned her attention back to the living room, specifically targeting the vintage velvet armchair and the low, wooden coffee table I had scoured antique shops to find.
"We need to clear this center area to roll out the schematics," Victoria announced to the room. She looked at me, tilting her head with a look of feigned, sisterly sympathy. "Your style is very... eclectic, Gwen. It’s cute for a starter apartment, but when you’re hosting C-suite level strategy sessions, this kind of cluttered, cozy aesthetic really hinders productivity. It lacks authority. I have a fantastic interior architect on retainer in Manhattan. I’d be happy to pass along her contact info.
She excels at modern, minimalist spaces that project the right kind of executive power. "
A hot, blinding wave of anger surged up my throat. "I don't want a minimalist space, Victoria. This is my home, not a satellite office."
Victoria blinked, her expression shifting into one of exaggerated, patient tolerance. "Of course, darling. But as the wife of a CEO, your home is an extension of the brand. It’s just something you have to learn to navigate."
I turned to Reid, silently begging him to intervene. I needed him to draw a line. I needed him to tell this woman that she was out of bounds, that she could not walk into our sanctuary and treat me like an ignorant, delicate housewife who needed to be managed.
Reid didn't even look up from the blueprints he was unfurling across my dining table.
"Victoria, come look at the zoning boundaries on the eastern quadrant," Reid called out, his voice sharp with focus. "If we push the perimeter wall back fifty yards, we bypass the protected wetlands entirely."
"Coming," Victoria answered smoothly. She cast one last, triumphant look in my direction, a microscopic smirk playing at the corner of her mouth, before turning her back on me entirely.
She walked over to the table and leaned in close to my husband, their shoulders practically brushing as they analyzed the documents.
I was entirely erased from the equation.