Chapter Twenty-Two
Brooke
I didn’t know I would say it until the very moment it came out of my mouth. And before anyone comes after me, no, I didn’t say it for attention. Or for drama. I said it because it’s been building for a while.
And yeah, I know life would be easier if I just stayed home. Everyone says it. It’s easier. But here’s the thing, easier isn’t the same as right.
For me, it comes down to one word: will. I won’t do something I don’t want to just to keep the peace.
If Matthew had framed it differently, if he’d asked instead of expecting, I might’ve agreed to part-time.
Hell, I even considered working from home.
It’s an option. A little less pay, sure, but when I factor in childcare, it’s barely a loss.
But the way he made it sound? Like my entire existence was already decided for me.
I can’t imagine spending the rest of my life at home, living off my husband’s pay check, my worth measured by how clean the kitchen is and whether the laundry’s folded. And it’s not like that’s not work. It is and brutal work at that. But it’s not my choice.
And that’s what I keep coming back to.
“Because if I stay home, I won’t just be a wife and a mother.
I’ll be the cook, the housekeeper, the project manager of every invisible thing in this apartment.
And when Matthew comes home late, working weekends and drowning in stress, I won’t even be allowed to be angry. Because guess what? He makes the bucks.
I’ll be expected to swallow it. Smile through it. Be grateful.
And maybe some women are fine with that. But I’m not.
Call me selfish, unreasonable, unlikable, but I’m not.
I can’t build my entire life on someone else’s back and hope he never falters. I won’t. I can love Matthew with everything I have, and still not want to hand him the keys to my entire existence.
Love isn’t obedience.
“You look fierce,” Zara says, snapping me out of my spiral.
I let out a dry laugh. “Matthew and I just got into it last night.”
Her expression softens immediately. “I’m sorry.”
I shrug, though the knot in my stomach doesn’t ease. “It’s like he just… changed. Or maybe he was like this the whole time, and I just didn’t see it.”
Zara tilts her head. “Is it that bad?”
I take a slow breath. “I told him to change or I’m done.”
Her eyes widen. “Woah. Did you mean it?”
I nod, no hesitation. “I can’t be in a relationship where I have to apologize for wanting independence. I signed up for a husband, not a daddy.”
“Good for you,” Zara says without missing a beat. “My ex pulled a lot of asshole shit, and I… well, I said the ‘I’m done’ thing a lot. Sometimes I even meant it. But then I’d take him back without any real change.”
I bite my lip, because God, I get that. “I love Matthew. I really do.”
Zara gives me a small, sad smile. “Sometimes love isn’t enough.”
She says it like she’s not really talking about me anymore. I open my mouth to ask, but before I can, there’s a knock at the front door.
I stay seated in the living room while Zara heads over to answer it.
Her place is huge, but lived-in, soft lighting pooling across old hardwood floors.
Zara lives in a brownstone not far from our apartment, she got it in the divorce.
Apparently, it was one of her ex’s less valuable properties, which honestly says a lot about the kind of money he has.
He’s still around. Zara told me once that she and he were halfway to reconciling. He even dumped his girlfriend when his mother convinced him Zara had postpartum depression and was “unstable.” He’s been apologizing ever since.
They share fifty-fifty custody, but he works too, so they agreed to share the nanny at Zara’s house. Honestly, they’re kind of the best divorced couple I’ve ever seen. No screaming matches, no drawn-out court battles. Just… co-parenting that actually works.
Zara’s only real struggle is with her ex’s mother, Sandra. She’s been in Zara’s life forever, more like a mom than an in-law. Which is probably why the recent lie hurt her more than she’ll ever admit out loud.
I trace the rim of my mug with my finger, listening to the sound of Zara’s footsteps coming back toward the living room. A second later, I hear another set of footsteps behind hers. I set the mug down and spring to my feet just as Marta steps inside.
She’s bundled up in a dark coat, her cheeks pink from the cold, her grey-streaked hair pulled neatly into a bun. Zara passes by me on her way to the kitchen. I smile, extending my hand.
“Hi, Marta,” I say, giving her hand a firm shake. “How’s your day been?”
Her face softens into a kind smile. “Busy,” she says with a light laugh. “But good. The bus was late again, but that’s nothing new. And your little one? How’s she doing?”
“She’s good,” I reply, relaxing a little. “Currently training her internal clock to wake up at 3 a.m.”
Marta chuckles knowingly, a warm, full sound. “Ah, a smart girl already. She knows how to keep Mama close.”
The warmth in her voice eases me instantly. It’s hard not to like her. The background check Zara’s ex ran on her came back squeaky clean, so that helps too.
Marta’s eyes do a little sweep of the room as she unbuttons her coat. “Now, I’ve met Mr. Milo,” she says with a smile. “But where is Mr. Basen?”
I force a tight smile. “He… couldn’t make it. Work, you know.”
Marta nods like she’s seen this a hundred times before and doesn’t judge. “Of course,” she says lightly, but something in her kind eyes tells me she reads more than I’m saying.
“Marta,” I say, glancing at her because this might be important somehow, “Matthew… he’s not exactly a hundred percent on board with me going back to work.”
She straightens slightly, alert.
I rush to clarify, “But it won’t affect anything, I can still pay you once I start. I promise.”
Marta smiles gently, shaking her head. “That’s not what I’m worried about.” Her voice softens. “Are you okay?”
I nod automatically. “Yeah. I will be. I mean-” I shrug, but the words feel flimsy.
Marta reaches out and takes my hand, giving it a firm squeeze before tugging me gently down onto the couch. I sit beside her, turning a little so I’m facing her.
“It’s like ever since we had our daughter,” I say quietly, “I stopped being Brooke in his eyes and became… the mother of his child. That’s all he sees now. He won’t even talk to me.”
Marta’s kind face hardens just a little, like she’s seen this story before and doesn’t like how it ends. “Is he shutting you out?” she asks, her voice low but steady.
I nod.
“He controls the money?” Marta asks.
I nod again, a little slower this time.
“Is your name on the lease?”
I nod once more.
She tilts her head. “Are you sure? You’ve seen it?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “It is.”
Marta nods too, thoughtful now. “Listen,” she says gently, but there’s an edge of steel in her voice.
“I don’t know you or Matthew, but in my experience, when people use silence as a weapon, there’s not much else they’re not willing to use.
It stops being about the relationship and starts being about control. ”
My instinct kicks in immediately. “He’s not like that,” I say quickly, a little too quickly.
Marta doesn’t argue. She just rests a warm, steady hand on my knee.
“That may be true,” she says softly. “But it won’t hurt to start saving.
To have a plan. Whether it’s a family member or a friend, someone you trust. If you need it, it’s there.
If you don’t…” she lifts a shoulder, “then who’ll it hurt? ”
I shudder, the thought settling deep in my bones, colder than I want to admit. I know I told Matthew, I’d leave, but I didn’t really think it would come to that. He’ll change, right.
He won’t want to lose us.
Right.
Matthew
“What the fuck did you do?”
I look up from the tender contracts I’ve been reviewing, my pen still in my hand, as Dan storms into my office. His face is red, his tie askew, and he’s breathing like he just ran up ten flights of stairs.
I stay seated, waiting for him to use his words like a grown man.
He slams a stack of papers onto my desk so hard the pen rolls off. I glance down, press releases and billboard mock-ups for the discount campaign I signed off on last week.
“What,” I say flatly.
Dan grits his teeth, his jaw twitching. “It was supposed to be from Love Field, you idiot.”
I push back my chair slowly. “What are you talking about?”
“Dallas airport is one of the busiest hubs we have!” he yells, spit actually flying.
“And you blasted a fifty percent off campaign from the wrong fucking location. Do you have any idea how many calls we’ve gotten about this?
People showed up to book flights only to be told the discount doesn’t exist?
“I-”
“No,” he cuts me off, pacing now. “We either eat the loss, or we retract and piss off about a hundred thousand customers. It’s a fucking nightmare.”
I narrow my eyes, voice low. “That is exactly what I told you when you told me to make the campaigns. You told me to mind my own pay grade and stamp it. Don’t pin this on me, Dan.”
Dan’s face goes beet-red. “You piece of shit,” he spits. “Don’t try to make this out to be my fault. You should’ve used your fucking brain and thought it through. Now we have to explain to the new boss why a mid-level employee fucked it up. Pack your bags, your days are numbered.”
He storms out before I can say anything. Through the open doors, I can see heads turning in the bullpen; half the office is pretending they didn’t just hear their marketing director scream at me like that. I stare at them. They look away the second our eyes connect.
I know I should be worried, but I’m not stupid.
I knew Dan would try to pin this on me the second he realized the blowback.
That’s why, the night before I signed, I emailed him.
I asked him to confirm which location the campaign should run from.
He replied, plain as day: “Dallas Airport - go ahead, stamp it.” I saved the thread. I CCed Knore and Hughes when I sent it.
My personal life may be in the gutter, but at least my job is safe.
A job I don’t even want anymore, if I’m being honest.
Last night, Brooke said I’d changed. And she’s right. I have. Just… not for the better.
It started when Dan showed up. Before him, I actually mattered here. I was a marketing manager doing half the president’s job, and it felt good. Made me feel important. Like I had weight. Like what I said counted.
Then Dan walked in and all of that got ripped out from under me. My title didn’t matter anymore. My voice didn’t matter anymore. And somewhere along the way, I started carrying that bitterness home. I didn’t even notice it at first, just small things. Shorter answers. Longer silences.
I let the way this place made me feel bleed into my marriage.
I projected it onto Brooke. Onto us.
That’s on me. I shouldn’t have let the stress from work make me shut down. I should’ve explained it to her. Told her I was doing this for her, for Penny, not because of some screwed-up patriarchal belief that she belongs at home. But I didn’t. And instead of talking, I pulled away.
And yeah, I shouldn’t have hidden the money problems either. That one’s on me too.
So, I’ll fix it. I’m going to give her the passwords, the logins, the full details on every account. Let her have the same access I do. Not because I owe it like some transaction, but because she deserves to have power, too.
Because she’s my wife, not my dependent.
I look down at the contracts spread across my desk. At this point, I’d much rather be home.
My lips press together, the thought forming before I can stop it. Severance wouldn’t be that bad. It’d hold us long enough for me to get another job. Hell, we could finally sue over Brooke’s termination, actually fight back instead of just swallowing it.
The idea makes me smile, just a little, as I let out a breath and push back from my chair. I grab my jacket, sling it over my shoulder, and head for the elevator.
I’m halfway there when Trudy intercepts me, her heels clicking sharply against the tile. “Mr. Basen, where are you going?”
“Home,” I say simply.
“Mr. Basen-” she starts, the nervous edge in her voice betraying her.
“Trudy,” I cut in, keeping my tone calm but firm. “I was just called names by my boss in front of half the floor. So, tell him I needed a personal day.”
She opens her mouth, then closes it again, nodding.
I step into the elevator without another word and press the button.
This time, I don’t take the subway like I usually do. I step out onto the street, lift my arm, and hail a cab. For once, I just want to get home fast.
But the second I cross the threshold of our apartment, whatever small flicker of relief I had evaporates.
It’s quiet.
She’s not here.