CHAPTER NINETEEN
TRISTEN
A month without her felt like learning to breathe with broken ribs.
I woke up every morning in a bed that still smelled faintly of her lavender lotion, reached for a body that wasn't there, and forced myself through the motions of a life that had lost all meaning.
Shower. Coffee. Suit. Office. Meetings that blurred together into a gray haze of numbers and projections that I couldn't have cared less about.
The house was too quiet. Too clean. Too fucking empty.
I'd stopped eating meals at the dining table because sitting there alone made me want to put my fist through the wall. I ate standing at the kitchen counter instead, shoveling food into my mouth without tasting it, my eyes fixed on the spot where Aubree used to sit and laugh at my terrible jokes.
She hadn't responded to my message. Not a single word in thirty-one days.
I checked my phone constantly, compulsively, like an addict waiting for a fix that would never come. Every notification made my heart stutter. Every silence afterward felt like a fresh wound torn open.
But I'd promised to give her space. I'd promised to stop flooding her with words that meant nothing without action to back them up.
So I threw myself into the only thing I could control: becoming the man I should have been all along.
"You want to do what?" Vanessa stared at me across my desk, her pen frozen over her notepad.
"I want to restructure the foundation's leadership. Effective immediately, Aubree will have sole control over all fertility and family initiatives. The programs she designed, the grants she established, the partnerships she built. All of it goes under her authority, with full budgetary autonomy."
"And your role?"
"I step back. Advisory capacity only, and only if she wants my input." I leaned forward in my chair, my forearms braced on the desk. "She built the heart of that foundation, Vanessa. I just wrote checks. It's time the world knew whose vision actually matters."
Vanessa was quiet for a long moment, her expression carefully neutral. She'd worked with me long enough to know when I was serious and when I was just throwing ideas at the wall. This was clearly the former.
"The board will have questions."
"The board can ask them directly to me. I'll handle any pushback."
"And the press? They're still running stories about the gala. About Oakleigh. About..." She hesitated. "About your marriage."
My jaw clenched so hard I felt my teeth grind together. "That's the other thing I want to discuss. I'm going to make a statement."
"What kind of statement?"
"The kind where I tell the truth."
The press conference was scheduled for the following Wednesday.
I spent the days leading up to it drafting and redrafting what I wanted to say, throwing out version after version because none of them felt honest enough.
Every corporate-approved statement Vanessa suggested made me want to throw my laptop across the room.
I didn't want carefully crafted messaging.
I didn't want spin or damage control or strategic positioning.
I wanted to stand in front of the cameras and tell the world that I had failed my wife. That every headline mocking her weight, her fertility, her worth as a woman, existed because I had been too fucking cowardly to protect her from a situation I created.
The morning of the press conference, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and barely recognized the man staring back at me. I'd lost weight over the past month, my cheeks hollowed out from skipped meals and sleepless nights. The bags under my eyes made me look ten years older than I was.
Good. I looked like exactly what I was: a man who had destroyed the best thing in his life and was living with the consequences.
I put on the navy suit Aubree had picked out for me two years ago. She'd said it made my eyes look more golden than hazel. I'd worn it to every important event since, a superstitious ritual she used to tease me about.
Now it felt like penance.
The conference room at Wickham headquarters was packed with reporters, cameras, and the low buzz of anticipation that always preceded corporate announcements. I stood backstage, my hands shaking slightly as I reviewed my notes one final time.
Ciara appeared at my elbow. "They're ready for you, sir."
"Thanks." I folded the notes and shoved them in my pocket. I wouldn't need them. The words I needed to say had been burning in my chest for weeks.
I walked out to the podium, and the room went quiet.
The flash of cameras was blinding. I gripped the edges of the podium and waited for the noise to settle, my heart pounding against my ribs like it was trying to escape.
"Thank you all for coming," I began, my voice steadier than I expected. "I'm here today to address the recent coverage of my family and to make some announcements about the future of the Wickham Foundation."
A reporter in the front row already had his hand up. I ignored him.
"For the past several weeks, I've watched the media dissect my wife's fertility journey, her body, and her worth as a woman and mother.
I've seen headlines that reduced her to a punchline.
Comments that questioned whether she deserved the family she's spent years fighting for.
" My voice hardened, and I felt the anger I'd been suppressing rise up hot and bitter in my throat.
"And I need you all to understand something very clearly: every single one of those stories exists because I failed to protect her. "
The room went completely silent. Even the cameras seemed to pause.
"My wife, Aubree, is the visionary behind the Wickham Foundation's fertility and family initiatives.
She designed our support programs. She established our grant partnerships.
She built relationships with clinics and counselors across the country, all while enduring a private struggle that most people couldn't imagine surviving.
" I paused, letting the words sink in. "She did all of this while I took the credit and accepted the accolades that should have been hers. "
I could feel Vanessa's eyes boring into the back of my skull from where she stood offstage. This wasn't the approved statement. This wasn't anything close to what we'd discussed.
I didn't care.
"Effective immediately, Aubree will have sole control over all fertility and family initiatives within the foundation.
Full budgetary autonomy. Full decision-making authority.
I will step back to an advisory role, because the truth is, I've been riding her coattails for years while she did the real work. "
A murmur rippled through the crowd. I held up my hand to quiet them.
"I also want to address the coverage of our personal lives directly.
The speculation about my marriage. The photos from the gala.
The stories implying that I've somehow replaced my wife with our surrogate.
" My stomach turned at the memory of those headlines, at the image of Aubree's face when she'd confronted me in that alley.
"Let me be absolutely clear: I have not been unfaithful to my wife.
Not physically. But I failed her in ways that matter just as much. "
I took a breath, feeling the weight of what I was about to say press down on my shoulders.
"I kept secrets from her. I made decisions that affected our family without consulting her.
I prioritized another person's comfort over my wife's emotional well-being, and I justified it by telling myself I was protecting our pregnancy.
" My voice cracked slightly, and I didn't try to hide it.
"I was wrong. I was a coward. And I am deeply, profoundly sorry for the pain my choices caused her. "
The reporters were scribbling furiously, cameras clicking in a constant cascade of noise. I ignored all of it.
"Going forward, I am asking the press to respect my family's privacy.
My wife is healing. Our child will be born in the coming months.
And I will spend the rest of my life trying to become the husband she deserved from the beginning.
" I paused, my throat tight with emotion.
"I'm not asking for sympathy. I'm not asking for understanding.
I'm simply telling you the truth, because my wife deserved honesty months ago, and I'm done hiding behind corporate statements and carefully managed narratives. "
I stepped back from the podium.
"I won't be taking questions."
The room erupted into chaos as I walked off the stage, reporters shouting questions I had no intention of answering. Vanessa intercepted me in the hallway, her face a complicated mixture of horror and something that might have been respect.
"That was not the approved statement."
"I know."
"The board is going to lose their minds."
"Let them." I kept walking, my stride purposeful. "I'm done managing perceptions. I'm done protecting the Wickham brand at the expense of my wife. If that costs me my position, so be it."
Vanessa fell into step beside me, her heels clicking rapidly on the marble floor. "For what it's worth, sir, I think you did the right thing."
I stopped and turned to look at her. "Do you?"
"My sister went through IVF for three years.
I watched what it did to her marriage, her self-esteem, everything.
" Vanessa's professional mask slipped for just a moment, revealing something softer underneath.
"What you just said in there? That's going to mean something to a lot of people who've felt invisible in their own stories. "
I nodded, unable to speak past the tightness in my throat.
"Thank you, Vanessa. For everything."
That night, I sat alone in my office at home, watching the coverage of the press conference on my laptop. The reactions were mixed, as I'd expected. Some commentators praised me for taking accountability. Others accused me of performative guilt, a billionaire making a grand gesture to save face.
I didn't care what any of them thought.
The only opinion that mattered was Aubree's.
And I had no idea if she'd even seen it.
I pulled out my phone and stared at our text thread, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. I wanted so badly to send her a message. To tell her about the press conference, to explain that I'd meant every word, to beg her one more time to give me a chance to prove I could change.
But that wasn't what she needed. She needed to see the change, not hear about it. She needed time to process, to heal, to decide for herself whether I was worth another chance.
I put the phone down without typing anything.
Instead, I opened my email and started drafting the paperwork that would transfer full control of the foundation's fertility initiatives to Aubree. I copied in the attorneys, the board members, everyone who needed to sign off on making it official.
Then I sent a separate email to Dr. Pace, the medical advocate, asking for an update on the pregnancy that I could forward to Aubree without comment. Just information. Just honesty. Just the things I should have been giving her all along.
It was nearly midnight when I finally closed my laptop and climbed into bed.
The sheets were cold on Aubree's side. I pulled her pillow against my chest and breathed in the fading traces of her scent, letting the ache of missing her wash over me without fighting it.
I'm trying, I thought, hoping somehow she could feel it across the miles between us. I know it's not enough. I know I might never earn you back. But I'm trying to become someone worthy of your love, even if you never give it to me again.
I fell asleep holding her pillow, dreaming of a future I wasn't sure I deserved.
But I would keep working toward it anyway.
Because she was worth it.
She had always been worth it.
And I was finally learning what it meant to prove that with actions instead of words.