Chapter 3 Daisy #2
The table goes quiet. Adam's hand is still holding mine, but his grip has tightened almost imperceptibly, whether in warning or anticipation, I can't tell. What do I love about him?
I could give the scripted answer. Lorraine has prepared notes for this exact question: something about his dedication, his vision, his commitment to excellence. Safe words that mean nothing and offend no one. But Klaus asked for truth. And I'm so tired of lying.
"The doorframe," I say.
Klaus's brow furrows. "The doorframe?"
"On our wedding night." I feel Adam's hand go very still in mine.
"He tried to carry me across the threshold, and he hit his head.
Hard. There was blood, and he was so embarrassed, but he wouldn't let me help him at first. He just stood there, bleeding, trying to figure out what he'd done wrong, and I—" My voice catches, surprising me.
"I laughed. And then he almost smiled. And I thought: oh.
There's someone in there, behind all the walls. "
Ingrid makes a soft sound. Klaus is watching me with new interest.
"And the night of the snow," I continue, because I've started now and I can't seem to stop.
"Four months into our marriage. The power went out, and we were stuck in the penthouse with nothing but candles and each other, and he let me read to him.
A romance novel. He pretended to hate it at first, made all these comments about the plot being predictable, but by chapter three he was asking questions.
Real questions. About why the characters made the choices they did.
About whether love could actually work that way. "
Adam's grip on my hand is almost painful now.
"He moves between me and doors," I say quietly. "Every time. In restaurants, in hallways, in rooms with strangers. He positions himself like a shield without even realizing he does it. Like protecting me is automatic. Like keeping me safe is the one thing he never has to think about."
Klaus's eyes are bright. "Beautiful," he murmurs. "Just beautiful."
"Daisy," Adam says, and his voice sounds strange, rough, uncertain. "I didn't know you—"
"Adam." Victor's voice cuts across the table like a blade. He's standing in the doorway that leads to the private lounge area, and I have no idea when he got up or moved. "A word. The Brandt expansion terms. There's a clause we need to discuss before tomorrow's call."
Adam doesn't move immediately. His thumb brushes across my knuckles, soft, questioning.
"Adam," Victor repeats, an edge of impatience in his tone. "Now, please."
And just like that, the moment shatters.
Adam drops my hand. He stands, murmurs something apologetic to Klaus, and follows his father out of the dining room. Klaus rises too, chuckling about "business never resting," and trails after them with promises to return shortly.
The door closes behind them.
I'm alone at the table with Ingrid, who is looking at me with what might be sympathy, or pity. It's hard to tell the difference sometimes.
"That was lovely, dear," she says softly. "What you said about him."
"It was true."
"I know." She reaches across the table to touch my hand briefly. "I know it was."
But she doesn't say anything else, and after a moment she excuses herself to powder her nose, leaving me in the private dining room with the remains of a meal I barely touched and the echo of my own confession hanging in the air.
I stand up. My legs feel unsteady, though I've barely had any wine. The room seems too warm suddenly, the chandelier too bright, the walls too close. I need air. I need to get out of this room, away from a table set for six while my husband discusses expansion clauses somewhere else.
The hallway outside the dining room is cool and dim, all marble floors and muted sconces.
I lean against the wall, pressing my palms flat against the stone, trying to steady my breathing.
My head is pounding. I've had headaches more often lately, stress probably, or the irregular meals I've been grabbing between livestreams and book club prep.
I told him the truth. The hallway tilts.
I blink, trying to focus, but the marble floor seems to be moving beneath my feet in a way that can't be right.
The sconces blur into smears of light. My pulse roars in my ears, too loud and too fast, drowning out everything else.
I should sit down. I should find a chair, find someone, find.
The gray comes fast and complete, like someone pulled a curtain across my vision.
I feel myself falling but can't stop it. And then nothing.
I come back to consciousness slowly, in fragments.
Cold floor against my cheek. A throbbing in my temple that feels like someone is driving a nail into my skull.
The distant sound of laughter from behind the dining room doors: Klaus, probably, telling another story about the old days of Brandt Freight. I open my eyes.
The hallway floor is hard beneath me. Alone. The sconces still burn overhead, indifferent to my presence, and the door to the dining room is still closed, and nobody has noticed that the CEO's wife collapsed ten feet from where they're finishing dessert.
I push myself up slowly, wincing at the pain in my head. When I touch my temple, my fingers come away with a smear of blood, not much, but enough to know I hit something on the way down.
How long was I out? A minute? Five? The dinner sounds the same as it did before, the same rhythm of conversation and cutlery, which means nobody looked for me. Nobody noticed I was gone.
I sit on the cold marble with my back against the wall and my head throbbing and blood drying on my temple, and I listen to my husband's laughter filter through the closed door. He didn't come after me.
He doesn't know I'm here.
I have never felt so alone in my entire life.