He Called Me Crazy I Took It All (The Betrayal Upgrade #14)
Chapter 1
The woman on the phone sounds cheerful enough to sell teeth whitening, which is bold, considering she is calling to reschedule my psychiatric capacity evaluation.
"I’m sorry," I say. "My what?"
There is a small pause. Paper moves near her receiver. A keyboard clicks.
"Your capacity evaluation with Dr. Mehta. This is Laurel from Westbridge Behavioral Health. We had you down for Thursday at ten, but the doctor has a court conflict. We can move you to Friday afternoon or Monday morning."
I look at the grant report open on my desk. I look at the photograph beside it, my father at the Fairbanks Foundation groundbreaking, one hand on a shovel, the other around my shoulders. He looks sunburned and proud and completely alive.
That seems rude of him, honestly.
"Laurel," I say, "can you tell me who scheduled the original appointment?"
"Let me check."
More typing. A soft, puzzled breath.
"It says it came through your husband’s office. Mr. Druce requested the appointment on your behalf."
My husband.
Marshall Druce, board president, co-trustee, man who once wrote me a note on hotel stationery that said he loved how my mind worked.
Cute.
"Did he," I say.
Laurel’s tone changes. Not by much. Enough. "Is there a problem, Mrs. Druce?"
That name has never fit me right. I use it socially. At work, I am Honor Fairbanks. My father made sure of that before he died, with the kind of paperwork Marshall used to praise before he started trying to crawl around it.
"No problem," I say. "I didn’t receive the confirmation. Could you email it to me?"
"Sure. I can send it to the address on file."
"Read it to me first."
Another tiny pause. "It’s honor dot druce at Fairbanks Foundation."
I have never used that email address. It exists because Marshall thought it looked cleaner on donor seating charts.
"Send it to honor.fairbanks at Fairbanks Foundation too," I say. "And Laurel?"
"Yes?"
"Please don’t cancel the appointment yet."
I hang up and sit still for a full minute.
I don’t throw my phone. I don’t call Marshall and ask why my husband has scheduled an evaluation to determine whether I can manage my own trust.
I open the top drawer of my desk and take out the navy notebook I bought last month because it was pretty and I had briefly convinced myself that journaling was going to fix grief. That was adorable. The grief was still a daily companion.
On the first page, I write the date.
Then:
Westbridge Behavioral Health called to reschedule capacity evaluation. I did not schedule it. Laurel said Marshall’s office requested appointment on my behalf.
My hand is steady.
That seems worth noting too.
At six fifteen, Marshall walks into my office with a paper bag from the Italian place downstairs and a face arranged into husbandly concern.
He is handsome because expensive men stay handsome when other people manage the details.
Blond hair trimmed every three weeks. Blue shirt, no tie, sleeves rolled just so.
Watch that costs more than my first car.
The smile he gives donors says, I remember your children’s names.
The smile he gives me lately says, I have rehearsed patience in the elevator.
"You’re still here," he says.
"Sharp eye. The furniture stayed, too."
He blinks. "What?"
"Nothing. Long day."
"I brought dinner." He lifts the bag. "You skipped lunch again."
I did not skip lunch. I ate a turkey sandwich over a spreadsheet and got mustard on a grant denial, which felt thematically appropriate.
"Did I?"
Marshall’s smile tightens. "Honor."
That tone again. Warm hand on the back of the neck. Velvet over a lock.
"I’m asking," I say.
"You texted me that you forgot to eat."
"Show me."
He laughs once, like I have made a joke and he is being generous. "Baby, I’m not cross-examining dinner."
"Shame."
He sets the bag on my conference table. "You’ve been tired."
"My father died eight months ago."
"I know that."
"People mention it sometimes. Usually right before they tell me what I’m feeling."
Marshall comes closer and sits in the chair across from my desk. He does not ask. He used to. That is one of those marital changes people do not put in anniversary posts.
"I’m worried about you," he says.
"Because of lunch?"
"Because of the last few months. The missed calls. The confused grant numbers. The way you snapped at Sabine last week."
I did snap at Sabine Roark last week. She told a junior program officer to reroute a scholarship approval through her private office, and I told her the foundation did not outsource its spine to wealth advisors in cream suits. I stand by the review, though maybe I could have smiled less.
"Sabine survived," I say.
"That’s not the point."
"It was briefly satisfying, though."
Marshall folds his hands. Wedding ring visible. Husband pose activated.
"I don’t want you to feel attacked."
Great opening line. Very courtroom-adjacent.
"Then try talking like a person who likes me."
A flicker crosses his face, and I catch the man underneath the practiced concern: annoyed, calculating, bored by the part where I answer back.
Then he is soft again.
"I love you," he says. "And I think you need support."
I glance at the notebook in my drawer, closed now beneath a stack of vendor contracts.
"Support," I say.
"Yes."
"From whom?"
"We can talk about options."
We.
Cute again.
The first year we were married, Marshall used to put coffee beside me before I asked. He remembered I hated orchids, loved ridiculous courthouse gargoyles, and cried during dog food commercials if they used old golden retrievers. He used to know me in small, practical ways.
Now he studies me like a liability.
"Eat," he says gently.
I take the takeout container because a woman can be betrayed and still respect rigatoni.
Marshall watches me open it.
"There," he says. "Better."
I look down so he cannot see my face.
After he leaves, I open the notebook again.
I add:
Marshall said I texted that I forgot lunch. No such text on my phone. He named missed calls, confused grant numbers, and Sabine incident as examples. Tone rehearsed.
Then I pause.
The next sentence feels ugly, which is how I know it belongs.
Marshall lied before dinner.