Chapter 7 Daisy
DAISY
The penthouse is dark when I get home, which is wrong because it's only seven o'clock and Adam's car is in the garage.
I know his car is in the garage because I checked.
I've been checking things compulsively since the roses, since the handwriting, since I spent two hours at the bookstore with Nell trying to figure out if Cole Redding is actually out of prison and how he found me and what the card is supposed to mean.
Nell made calls. She has a friend who works for a victims' advocacy organization, and that friend has connections to the state's notification system. They're supposed to let you know when your abuser gets released. They're supposed to give you warning. I never got any warning.
The friend said she'd look into it. She said these things can take time. She said bureaucratic failures happen more often than anyone wants to admit. She said I should be careful.
I let myself into the penthouse and stand in the entryway, listening. The hum of climate control. The distant tick of the ridiculous clock in the sitting room. Nothing else. No movement, no voices, no indication that my husband is actually home.
"Adam?"
No response.
I find him in his study, door open, seated at his desk with three monitors displaying information I can't process. The lamp is on, casting his face in sharp relief: jaw tight, brow furrowed, attention locked on whatever problem is demanding his focus tonight.
"Adam," I say again, and this time he acknowledges me with a glance.
"I'm in the middle of something."
"I noticed." I step into the study, and he doesn't look up again, just keeps scrolling through documents and typing responses. "Did you see what happened today?"
"The leak. Yes. Legal's handling it."
"Legal's handling it." I wait for more. For concern. For an acknowledgment that my life was just exposed to millions of strangers for judgment and mockery. The silence stretches. "That's it? That's all you have to say?"
"Lorraine's coordinating the response. She said she spoke with you."
"She called to tell me I needed to perform a romantic comedy for the press. She didn't ask how I was doing."
"How are you doing?"
He says it like he's reading from a script, eyes still on the monitor, fingers still moving across the keyboard.
"I had a panic attack in Nell's stockroom," I say.
"The internet is calling me a gold digger and a prostitute and worse.
People I've never met are dissecting my marriage, my choices, my entire life, and I spent two hours reading comments that made me feel like I should apologize for existing.
" My voice is rising, which I didn't intend, but I can't seem to stop it. "So no, Adam. I'm not doing great."
He stops typing. For a moment, I think I've reached him, that the words have finally landed somewhere real, somewhere human. Then he sighs.
"We knew this was a possibility when we entered into the arrangement," he says, turning to face me with an expression that's almost patient, almost kind, and somehow that's worse than indifference.
"The contract was always a liability. Now that it's public, we deal with the fallout.
It's not pleasant, but it's manageable."
"Manageable." The word tastes bitter. "People are saying I prostituted myself for money. That's manageable to you?"
"People say a lot of things. The news cycle will move on."
"And what about me? Do I just wait for the news cycle to move on while strangers tear me apart?"
"Daisy, what exactly do you want me to do?" He spreads his hands, reasonable and calm and completely infuriating. "I can't delete the internet. I can't unsay what's been said. The best strategy is—"
"I don't want strategy, Adam. I want you to be my husband."
The words hang between us, too honest and too raw, and I watch his face for a sign: recognition, guilt, tenderness, anything that suggests he understands what I'm actually asking for.
"I am your husband."
"No, you're my PR department. There's a difference." My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to.
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it? Because right now you're sitting there calculating the optimal response like I'm a crisis to be managed. You haven't hugged me. You haven't told me you're sorry. You haven't said anything that makes me feel like you actually care that I'm hurting."
Adam runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I do care. But caring doesn't fix the problem. Action fixes the problem. And the action we need to take is coordinating with Lorraine, staying on message, presenting a united front."
"A united front." I want to scream. "What about presenting any actual emotion? What about defending me?"
"Defending you from what? Anonymous strangers on Twitter? I can't fight the entire internet, Daisy."
"You could try! You could make a statement saying the comments are disgusting. You could tell people that your wife doesn't deserve to be called a whore for marrying you. You could do literally anything other than sit here and talk about messaging."
"A statement like that would only amplify the story. The smart play is to let it die down, not feed the fire."
"The smart play." I laugh, but it sounds like breaking. "That's all you ever think about, isn't it? The smart play. The strategic move. The thing that protects the company."
"The thing that protects us. Both of us."
"Does it feel like protection, Adam? Because it feels like abandonment. It feels like I'm drowning and you're standing on the shore taking notes on the current patterns."
He's quiet for a moment. His jaw works for a second: guilt, maybe, or frustration. Then he shuts it down, and the mask returns.
"I know you're upset. I understand. But getting emotional won't help. What will help is showing up on Friday looking composed and happy. The Brandt dinner is critical, and Klaus specifically requested that you attend. If we can get through that without incident, the narrative starts to shift."
"The Brandt dinner." I stare at him. "You want me to smile for Klaus Brandt the day after my life exploded."
"I want you to do your job."
My fingers curl against my palm.
"My job," I repeat quietly. "Right. Because that's what this is. That's what I am."
"That's not what I meant."
"Isn't it? Victor certainly thinks so. He offered me a retention bonus at Sunday lunch, like I'm an employee he's trying to keep from quitting before quarter's end."
Adam's jaw tightens. "My father was out of line."
"Your father was honest. Which is more than I can say for anyone else in this family."
"Daisy—"
"I needed you to be on my side today. I needed you to be angry for me, not at me.
I needed my husband to act like he actually cares whether I'm okay, and instead I got a strategy session.
" My voice breaks, and I hate it. "You didn't even come find me.
You stayed here, in your study, handling the crisis from your keyboard while I was falling apart in a bookstore with my friends. "
"I had calls. The board—"
"I don't care about the board!" The words explode out of me, louder than I intended.
"I care about the fact that my husband chose work over me on the worst day I've had since we got married.
I care about the fact that you're still sitting there looking at me like I'm being unreasonable for wanting basic emotional support. "
"You're not being unreasonable. But you are being impractical."
"Impractical." I laugh again, hollow. "That's what this is. Me wanting my husband to hold me after a nightmare day, that's impractical."
"The dinner is Friday," he says, as if I hadn't spoken. "Klaus is flying in tonight. I need you there, Daisy. I need you present and engaged and looking like everything is fine."
"And what do I get? What do I get for showing up and performing and pretending this doesn't hurt?"
"You get to keep living this life." His voice is flat, tired. "You get the penthouse and the security and everything we agreed to when you signed the contract. That's the deal. That's always been the deal."
I look at him, really look at him, and try to find the man who kissed my forehead in the car last month. He's not here, not tonight. He starts typing again.
"There's something else," I say, and my voice sounds strange now, thin and uncertain. "Something I need to tell you."
"Can it wait? This supplier issue is time-sensitive."
"It can't wait." I take a breath. "Flowers were delivered to the bookstore today. White roses. No name on the delivery, but there was a card."
"Flowers." He's still not looking at me. "From whom?"
"From—" I try to say it, try to force the name out, but my throat closes around the syllables. "From someone I knew before. Before you. Before any of this."
"A friend?"
"No." My hands are trembling again. "An ex. Someone I… someone who—"
"I'm busy, Daisy. Okay?"
The words cut through whatever I was trying to explain, sharp and final. He isn't angry, isn't dismissive in any dramatic way. Just factual: he's busy, and I'm interrupting. This conversation is less important than whatever's on his screen.
I stand there for another moment, waiting for him to notice that something is wrong, that I'm scared, that I'm trying to tell him something that matters. He doesn't notice. He's already back to typing, already absorbed in numbers and problems that have nothing to do with me.
"Okay," I say quietly. "Okay."
I leave the study and climb the stairs to my room: the guest room, my room now, the room I've been sleeping in alone for months while my husband occupies the master suite down the hall.
The door clicks shut behind me, and I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the wall.
I think about Cole's handwriting on that card.
Missed me?
I never told Adam about Cole. In five years of marriage, I've never once said his name out loud in this penthouse.
At first it was because the wounds were still fresh, the memories too close to the surface, the nightmares too frequent.
Then it was because Adam didn't ask. He never asked about my life before him: not the relationships, not the heartbreaks, not the thing that happened when I was twenty-four that sent me to a hospital and a courthouse and to a tiny apartment where I lived alone for months because the alternative felt impossible.
He didn't ask, and I didn't offer, and eventually the silence around Cole became so thick that breaking it seemed impossible.
Now someone from that silence has found me, and my husband is too busy to listen.
The hours pass. I don't sleep. I lie on the bed watching the ceiling. At midnight, I go downstairs for water.
The penthouse is still dark, but there's light coming from the study, the door slightly ajar. I pause in the hallway, not meaning to eavesdrop, but Adam's voice carries.
"… don't know what else to do."
He's on speaker. The voice that responds is tinny, distant, familiar: Victor.
"You handle it the way you handle everything," Victor says. "Strategically. Lorraine has the press angle covered. The contract leak changes the optics, but it doesn't change the fundamental position. You're still holding all the cards."
"The Brandt dinner is Friday. Klaus will have seen everything by now."
"Klaus is a romantic. He'll believe whatever story you sell him. The concern isn't Klaus. It's perception. If the marriage looks unstable, competitors smell weakness."
"The marriage isn't unstable."
"Then act like it. Take her to the dinner, do the photos, play the part. That's all anyone's asking."
There's a long pause. I press myself against the wall, heart pounding, waiting for I don't know what.
Then Adam says: "I don't know what to do, Dad. I'm not sure I love her."
The words land like a physical blow. I grip the wall to keep myself upright, fingers digging into the molding.
"She reads those stupid romance books and thinks that's what love is," he continues, and his voice is tired, frustrated, like he's explaining something obvious to someone who should understand. "I never promised her that."
"Then stop worrying about it," Victor says. "Love isn't the point. The point is leverage. You needed a wife, you got one. Whether you love her is irrelevant to the business arrangement."
"Is it, though? Because she seems to think—"
"What she thinks doesn't matter. What matters is what she does. Keep her compliant through the Brandt renewal, and then you can reassess. You're not obligated to feel anything, Adam. You're obligated to deliver results."
More silence. Then Adam: "You're right. Of course you're right."
"I'm always right. Get some sleep. Friday will be easier if you're not exhausted."
The call ends. I hear Adam moving in the study, chair rolling back, footsteps approaching the door. I run.
I make it to the stairs before he can see me, taking them two at a time with my hand over my mouth to stifle the sob that's trying to escape. I reach my room and close the door and press my back against it and slide to the floor and let the tears come.
I'm not sure I love her.
She reads those stupid romance books and thinks that's what love is.
I never promised her that.
He said it out loud. To his father. He stood in that study and admitted what I've been terrified of for months: that this marriage, this arrangement, this whole impossible thing I've been trying to make real.
It was never real for him. It was business.
It was strategy. It was leverage and optics and results.
I loved him. The tears stop eventually. Everything stops eventually.
I'm not sure I love her.
The good days aren't worth what the bad ones cost. The bad ones are most of them now.
I make the decision in the dark, with my back against the door and my heart in pieces on the floor: I'm ending this, for my own sake, because staying will kill a part of me I can't afford to lose.
I'll go tomorrow night, after the Brandt dinner, because I owe it to Ingrid to not make a scene and I owe it to Klaus to at least see through the renewal he's been so excited about. One more performance.
One more night of playing the devoted wife while my husband tells his father he doesn't love me.
And then I'm done.