Chapter 38
Chapter thirty-eight
Arthur
Three days in Europe should feel like relief. Different air. Different time zone. A schedule packed tight enough that there's no room for reflection. That has always been the point of travel—movement as insulation.
It doesn't work.
The hotel room is immaculate and anonymous, the kind of place designed to keep you from forming attachments. I stand at the window overlooking a city I don't care about and realize that for the first time in years, my control doesn't travel with me.
Henry's voice follows me everywhere. Not complaining. Not crying. Just matter-of-fact.
If you love her, stop acting like you don't.
I tell myself I'll deal with that later.
Later never comes.
I draft a revised schedule for Henry—additional tutoring blocks, a new extracurricular, time accounted for down to the quarter hour.
It looks perfect.
It looks nothing like him laughing in the kitchen with Lindsay.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes.
The distance I thought would clarify everything has only made the fracture lines more visible.
***
My team insists on a virtual meeting with me. Lawyers. PR consultants. Advisors who have never once steered me wrong—because they understand one thing very well: reputation is an asset, and assets must be protected.
They lay it out cleanly. Annulment. Swift. Quiet. Frame the marriage as a strategic miscalculation corrected in good faith. Distance myself publicly. Counter the narrative before it solidifies.
"There's also the mother," one of them adds, sharing a chart on the screen. "Her comments created the perception problem. We can discredit the source without appearing aggressive."
I scroll through prepared language. Carefully worded. Bloodless. Effective. This is what competence looks like. I should feel relief.
Instead, something in my chest tightens.
"The lottery winner angle gives us leverage," another advisor continues. "We can position this as an impulsive decision made by someone overwhelmed by sudden wealth and attention."
"Her behavior with your son at CAMICon supports that framing," adds the PR specialist. "Impulsive. Disruptive. Dangerous."
They keep talking. How the narrative would shift. How Lindsay would be reframed as unstable. How her family dynamic could be leveraged to explain why the marriage failed without implicating me.
None of them say her name with malice.
They're discussing her like a variable. Like a risk profile.
Like something that can be reduced and redistributed to stabilize the whole.
I think of Lindsay sitting on the edge of the guest bed, trying not to take up space. Of her laughter. Of the way she never stopped being herself, even when the world kept telling her to shrink.
I picture Henry at breakfast, talking about her like she's a constant. Like gravity.
And I understand, with absolute clarity, what this plan would cost.
"No." The word lands harder than I intend. The meeting goes quiet.
I straighten, hands flat on the table. "We are not attacking her. We are not attacking her family. And we are not pursuing an annulment."
There's pushback. Careful. Professional. Concerned. They talk about optics. Exposure. Long-term impact. How this could follow me.
"I understand the risk," I say evenly. "What you're proposing isn't protection. It's sacrifice."
Someone tries again. "Arthur, this is standard mitigation."
I meet their eyes, through the screen. "If defending myself costs her peace," I say, "then I won't defend myself."
"I love her."
The meeting ends differently than it began. No plan. No rollout. No damage control.
I leave the meeting and step out into the foreign morning, phone already in my hand.
I don't call Lindsay—not yet. This isn't something I can fix with words across an ocean.
Instead, I call Steven.
"Sir," he answers, clipped and professional.
"I need to make arrangements," I tell him. "I'm coming home early."
There's a pause on the line—just brief enough that I almost miss it. "Of course. When should we expect you?"
"Tomorrow."
Another pause. "The meetings—"
"Will be rescheduled or conducted remotely," I interrupt. "This is more important."
"Sir, when you get home, I have something to report about Henry and Lindsay."
"Are they OK?"
"Yes. There was just a slight hiccup."
"Good. We'll discuss the details when I get back."
I can hear Steven exhale softly, and there's something like approval in the sound. "I'll make the necessary arrangements."
***
The jet hums quietly around me, the sound white noise against my thoughts.
I've spent my life building systems to protect me. Control as a fortress. Distance as a moat.
I've surrounded myself with people who understand that business is not personal—even when it should be.
I've built a life of calculated decisions.
And for what?
A house that feels hollow.
I pull out my phone and stare at the screen. No messages. No missed calls. Just the silent confirmation that Lindsay isn't waiting for me to decide we're worth saving.
She's gone.
And I deserve that.
I close my eyes, the truth settling heavy in my chest. I haven't just failed at being a husband. I've failed at being a partner. At being the person who looks at Lindsay Dupree—in all her glittering, unapologetic complexity—and says yes, this is who I choose.
Not for what she can offer.
Not for what she can prevent.
But for who she is.
I open a blank text message. Then close it. This isn't something that can be fixed with words.
This requires action.