The Wife He Shut Out

Chapter 1

Jennifer

This dress cost four thousand dollars.

I knew because Clayton left the receipt on my vanity like a love note, the black Amex statement tucked beneath a velvet box containing diamond earrings I didn't ask for.

His version of romance. His version of I'm sorry I missed dinner again and I know I've been distant and please don't ask me questions I don't want to answer.

I smoothed my hands down the silk, watching myself in the full-length mirror of our walk-in closet.

The fabric was the color of champagne, cut low enough to show the swell of my breasts and high enough on my thigh to make my husband's jaw clench.

It fit like it was sewn directly onto my skin.

Like Clayton had called the designer and described exactly how he wanted me to look tonight: elegant, expensive, his.

A gorgeous velvet leash.

I should have felt beautiful. I should have felt grateful. Instead, I felt like I was suffocating in four thousand dollars worth of silk while my husband gave pieces of himself to everyone except me.

The bedroom door opened behind me, and my body responded before my brain caught up.

My nipples tightened. My breath shortened.

My skin flushed hot and then cold, and I hated myself for it.

Hated that after eight years of marriage, Clayton Mayer could still walk into a room and make my pulse trip over itself like a teenage girl with her first crush.

"You're late," I said without turning around.

"I know." His voice was low, rough from a long day, and I watched his reflection approach mine in the mirror.

He'd already loosened his tie, the top button of his white dress shirt undone to reveal the tanned skin of his throat.

His dark hair was slightly disheveled, like he'd been running his fingers through it, and there was a tension in his broad shoulders that I'd learned to recognize over the years.

Something was wrong. Something he wouldn't tell me.

Clayton stopped directly behind me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his body through the thin silk of my dress. His hands came up to grip my hips, and I watched his hazel eyes darken as they dragged down my reflection.

"Jesus Christ, Jennifer." His voice dropped an octave, thick with want. "You look..."

He didn't finish the sentence. He never did. Clayton wasn't a man who dealt in words when he could deal in action instead.

His fingers tightened on my hips, pulling me back against him until I could feel the hard length of his cock pressing against my ass through his trousers.

A low sound escaped my throat, half gasp and half moan, and I hated how easily he could pull that reaction from me.

How my body softened and opened for him even when my heart felt like it was bleeding out on the floor.

"We don't have time," I managed, but my voice came out breathy and unconvincing.

"We have time." His mouth found the curve of my neck, hot and open, and my eyes fluttered shut against my will.

His hands slid up from my hips to my waist, spanning the narrowest part of me like he was measuring whether he could still wrap his fingers around it. Possessive. Consuming. "I'll be quick."

And that was the problem, wasn't it?

He'd be quick. He'd hike up this four thousand dollar dress and fuck me against the mirror until I came so hard I saw stars, and then he'd zip himself back up, fix his hair, and escort me to the gala like nothing happened.

Like he hadn't just been inside me. Like I wasn't still clenching around the ghost of him for hours afterward.

He'd give me his body.

But he wouldn't give me a single goddamn word about why he'd been coming home later and later, why the lines around his eyes had deepened over the past few months, why he flinched every time his phone rang and then excused himself to take the call in another room.

I opened my eyes and met his gaze in the mirror.

"How's the waterfront project?"

The change was instant. His hands stilled on my body.

The heat in his eyes cooled by several degrees, replaced by that familiar shuttered expression I'd grown to hate.

He didn't pull away from me physically, but he might as well have.

The emotional distance between us stretched wide enough to swallow me whole.

"Fine," he said.

"Clayton."

"It's fine, Jennifer." He pressed a kiss to my bare shoulder, but it felt perfunctory now. Dismissive. "Nothing for you to worry about."

Nothing for you to worry about. His favorite phrase. His favorite way of telling me to stay in my beautiful golden cage and look pretty and not ask questions about the real parts of his life.

I turned in his arms, forcing him to meet my eyes directly instead of through the safety of the mirror. Up close, I could see the exhaustion he was trying to hide. The faint shadows under his eyes. The tight set of his jaw.

My husband was drowning, and he wouldn't even let me throw him a rope.

"I heard your father called an emergency board meeting," I said, keeping my voice gentle. Nonthreatening. The way you'd approach a wounded animal. "Corey mentioned something about budget overruns, permit issues..."

"Corey needs to learn to keep his mouth shut." Clayton's voice was hard. Cold. "And you need to stop worrying about things that don't concern you."

The words hit me like a slap.

I stepped back, out of his arms, and the loss of his body heat against mine felt like losing something vital. Like a piece of my chest being carved out with a dull knife.

"Right," I said quietly. "Wouldn't want to concern myself with my own husband's life."

"Jen..." He reached for me, regret already flickering across his features, but I sidestepped his hand.

"Go shower. We're going to be late."

I walked out of the closet before he could respond, my heels clicking against the hardwood floors with a sharp, deliberate rhythm that matched the pounding of my heart. Behind me, I heard him exhale heavily, the sound of a man who knew he'd fucked up but couldn't figure out how to fix it.

Good. Let him sit with that.

I made my way downstairs to the living room, all soaring ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city skyline.

Our home was stunning. A showpiece. The kind of place that got featured in architectural magazines and made dinner guests murmur with envy.

I'd designed most of it myself, back when Clayton actually asked for my opinions, back when he looked at my sketches with genuine interest instead of distracted politeness.

Now it felt like a mausoleum. Beautiful and cold and full of ghosts.

I poured myself a glass of wine from the bar cart and took a long sip, letting the alcohol warm my chest and take the edge off the ache that had settled there.

My reflection stared back at me from the darkened windows, and I barely recognized the woman I saw.

Hair perfectly styled in loose waves. Makeup flawless. Diamond earrings catching the light.

I looked like exactly what I was: Clayton Mayer's wife.

His accessory. His ornament. His possession.

But not his partner. Never that.

My phone buzzed on the marble countertop, and I glanced down to see a text from Skylar.

You okay? You've been quiet all week.

I typed back quickly: Fine. Just getting ready for the gala.

The three dots appeared, then: Bullshit. We're getting drunk tomorrow and you're telling me everything.

Despite myself, I smiled. Skylar had been my best friend since college, and she had an almost supernatural ability to sense when I was falling apart.

She also had zero patience for Clayton's shit, which meant I'd been avoiding her lately.

Avoiding having to admit out loud what I'd been feeling for months now.

That something was deeply, irreparably wrong in my marriage.

That my husband touched me like I was the only woman in the world, but treated me like I was the last person he'd ever confide in.

That I was so fucking lonely I could barely breathe.

I heard Clayton's footsteps on the stairs before I saw him, and my body responded with that same Pavlovian awareness that made me want to scream.

He'd showered quickly, changed into a perfectly tailored charcoal suit that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent.

His dark hair was still slightly damp, swept back from his face in a way that emphasized the sharp angles of his jaw and the intensity of those hazel eyes.

God, he was beautiful. Even now, even when I wanted to throw my wine glass at his head, I couldn't deny that Clayton Mayer was the most gorgeous man I'd ever seen.

He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, his gaze finding mine across the room with unerring accuracy. For a moment, neither of us spoke. The tension between us stretched tight like a wire about to snap.

"You look incredible," he said quietly.

"You already said that."

"I meant it then. I mean it now." He crossed the room toward me, each step measured and deliberate, like a predator approaching prey.

When he reached me, he didn't touch me. Just stood close enough that I could smell his cologne, something warm and expensive that I'd bought him for our anniversary three years ago. "I'm sorry."

"For what, specifically?" I kept my voice light, casual, even though my heart was racing. "For being late? For shutting me out? For treating me like I'm too fragile to handle whatever's happening with your company?"

His jaw tightened. "I'm trying to protect you."

"From what, Clayton?" I set my wine glass down harder than necessary, the crystal ringing against the marble. "From your own life? From the stress you're clearly under? I'm your wife. I'm supposed to be the person you lean on, not the person you hide from."

"It's complicated."

"So uncomplicate it. Talk to me."

He stared at me for a long moment, and I saw something flicker behind his eyes. A crack in the armor. A glimpse of the man I fell in love with, the one who used to tell me everything, who used to curl around me in bed and whisper his fears and dreams into my hair.

Then the shutters came down again.

"We should go," he said flatly. "The car's waiting."

I laughed, but there was no humor in it. Just a bone-deep weariness that had been building for months, maybe years. "Of course. Wouldn't want to keep your adoring public waiting."

"Jennifer..."

"Don't." I grabbed my clutch from the counter and walked past him toward the front door, close enough that my shoulder brushed his chest. The contact sent sparks skittering across my skin, and I hated him for it. Hated myself more. "Let's just get through tonight."

The Rolls-Royce was waiting in the circular driveway, sleek and black and obscene.

Clayton opened the door for me like the perfect gentleman he pretended to be, and I slid inside without looking at him.

The leather seats were soft and cool against my bare thighs, and I pressed my legs together, still feeling the ghost of his hands on my hips from earlier.

He climbed in beside me, close but not touching. The door closed with a soft thunk, sealing us in together.

"Jen." His voice was rough. "I don't want to fight."

"Then stop giving me reasons to."

He reached for my hand, his fingers closing around mine with a gentleness that made my chest ache. I should have pulled away. Should have maintained the walls I was trying so desperately to build. Instead, I let him lace our fingers together, his thumb stroking soft circles against my palm.

"I love you," he said quietly. "You know that, right?"

I turned to look at him, this man I'd built a life with, this man who held my body like it was sacred but treated my heart like an afterthought. The city lights flickered across his face as we pulled out of the driveway, casting him in alternating shadows and gold.

"I know you think you do," I whispered.

He flinched like I'd struck him.

And maybe I had.