5. Dante
— ? —
Dante
That Night
The penthouse is a tomb.
I stand in the doorway for a long time, keys still in my hand, staring at the darkness. The cleaning service was here today - I can smell the lemon polish, see the way the surfaces gleam in the light from the window - but it doesn’t help. The place still feels dead.
She’s been gone three weeks.
I drop my keys on the counter. Loosen my tie. Walk to the bar and pour myself a scotch I don’t want.
Her closet is still full.
I told the staff not to touch it. Told them to leave everything exactly where it is - her clothes, her books, the half-empty bottle of perfume on the bathroom counter.
Like if I keep it all in place, she might come back for it.
Might come back for me. The only thing I moved was her ring.
It sat on the bathroom counter for days before I could make myself pick it up.
Now it lives in my pocket, a stone I can’t set down.
Pathetic, whispers a voice in my head that sounds a lot like my father. You’re pathetic.
I take my scotch to the couch. Sit in the dark.
Julian Cross’s hand was on her back.
The image won’t stop replaying. His palm against her spine, right where mine used to rest. The way she leaned into it instead of pulling away. The way she laughed-
God, that laugh.
I haven’t heard her laugh like that in months. A year, maybe. And tonight she gave it to him, this man she just met, this shark who’s been circling my business for years. She gave him the laugh I used to earn just by walking into a room.
She looked alive, I think. She looked more alive in twenty minutes with Julian Cross than she has in a year with me.
That’s the thing that cuts deepest. Not the jealousy - though that’s there, burning in my chest like acid. Not the possessiveness, the primitive rage at seeing another man touch what’s mine.
It’s that she was happy.
And it had nothing to do with me.
***
The honeymoon wine is still sitting on the counter.
I notice it when I get up to refill my scotch. The bottle Nora dropped outside my office, the one security brought up after she left. I had them put it in the kitchen. Couldn’t bring myself to open it. Couldn’t bring myself to throw it away.
It just sits there. Waiting.
Like I’ve been waiting, I think. Waiting for her to come back. Waiting for her to forgive me. Waiting for this whole nightmare to fix itself.
I’m done waiting.
I go to my study. Find paper and a pen. Sit down at my desk and stare at the blank page until the words start to come.
Nora,
I don’t know how to reach you anymore. I’ve been trying for three weeks, and everything I say comes out wrong. I had a whole speech prepared tonight, and then I saw you with him, and all I could think was-
I stop. Cross it out. Start again.
I don’t know how to reach you anymore. I think maybe I haven’t known for a long time. Months. Maybe longer. And I kept telling myself we were fine, that I just needed to close this deal, finish this project, survive this quarter-
The pen stops moving.
Words she can’t hear aren’t enough.
I’ve been trying to explain. To make her understand what I was going through, why I disappeared, why the marriage went cold. But that’s not what she needs. She doesn’t need my reasons.
She needs me to show up.
I push the paper away. Stand up. Walk to the window.
The city glitters below. All those lights, all those lives. Somewhere out there, Nora is at her sister’s apartment, probably lying in bed, probably replaying the same scenes I am. Julian’s hand on her back. My fingers around her arm. The look on her face when she said I’m not your anything anymore.
I built an empire so she’d never want for anything, I think. Worked eighteen-hour days, missed dinners, missed anniversaries, missed everything. And the only thing she ever actually wanted was me in the room.
I sent a proxy every night for a year. Work. Deals. Excuses.
No wonder she stopped waiting.
***
I call the family lawyer at 11:30 PM.
“Dante?” Martinez sounds confused. Concerned. “Is everything all right?”
“I need you to do something for me.”
“At 11:30 PM on a Saturday night?”
“It’s important.” I take a breath. “The lake house. I want to sign it over.”
Silence on the other end.
“Sign it over,” Martinez repeats slowly. “To whom?”
“To Nora. Free and clear, no strings attached.”
“Dante, in the divorce proceedings-”
“This isn’t about the divorce. This is about-” I stop. Rub my eyes. “There’s a buyer lined up. The contract needs both our signatures. I want to make sure she gets what she wants from the sale, whatever that is. And I want an excuse to see her.”
“An excuse.”
“She won’t take my calls. She won’t answer my texts. But if there’s a legal reason we need to be in the same room…” I trail off. “I need one honest hour with her, Martinez. I’ll do whatever it takes to get it.”
Another long silence. Then he sighs.
“I’ll draw up the papers. But Dante-”
“Don’t.”
“She might not want to see you. Even for the lake house.”
“I know.” I look out at the city. At all those lights. “But it’s the only place we were ever really happy. If I can get her back there, maybe she’ll remember.”
“Remember what?”
“That we used to be worth fighting for.”
I hang up.
The wine bottle catches my eye again. That dusty Barolo, waiting to be opened.
Not yet, I think. When she comes home. If she comes home.
I’ll earn it first.