12. Delilah
— ? —
Delilah
“We need to talk.”
Lucas stands in the kitchen doorway, hat still in hand, looking at me like I’m a stranger. Maybe I am now. Maybe we both are, standing in this kitchen where we used to dance while waiting for the coffee to brew, where we used to steal kisses against the counter while Allana played in the next room.
That feels like another lifetime.
“About what?” His voice is cautious. Careful. Like he’s approaching a spooked horse.
I set the coffee mug down before I throw it. “The necklace.”
Something flickers across his face. Confusion, maybe. Or guilt wearing a very convincing mask.
“What necklace?”
“The Cartier one. Gold chain. Elegant pendant.” I grip the edge of the counter, needing something solid to anchor me. “The one I saw on your desk last night. The one Aimie was wearing this morning.”
He stares at me. His expression is blank - too blank, like he’s consciously keeping it that way - and for a long moment, neither of us speaks.
“Delilah, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t.” My voice cracks on the word, and I hate myself for it. Hate that he can still make me weak, still make me vulnerable, even now. “Don’t you dare stand there and lie to my face. I saw it, Lucas. In your office. And now she’s wearing it around her neck like a trophy.”
“I didn’t buy her a necklace.” He takes a step into the kitchen, hands raised like I’m pointing a weapon at him. “I didn’t buy anyone-”
“Then explain it.” I push off the counter, my bad leg screaming in protest, but I don’t care.
I need to move, need to be closer to him, need to watch his face when he tries to wriggle out of this.
“Explain why she’s living in our house, wearing my clothes, cooking for our daughter, and now sporting jewelry that magically appeared on your desk. ”
“She’s helping.” His jaw tightens - that stubborn set I used to find attractive, back when it was directed at problems instead of me. “That’s all. You were in the hospital, and we needed someone to-”
“To what? Replace me?”
The word hangs in the air between us. Replace. Such a small word for such a massive betrayal.
“To ride.” Lucas’s voice rises, frustration bleeding through the careful control. “To compete. To save the investors we lost when you fell.”
The words hit like a slap.
“When I fell,” I repeat slowly. “You mean when I almost died? When our horse went down and I cracked my leg? That’s what this is about? Money?”
“It’s not just money.” He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture I’ve seen a thousand times when he’s stressed. “It’s the business. Our business. Everything we built-”
“I built it too!” I’m shouting now, and I don’t care.
Don’t care if Allana hears, don’t care if the staff hears, don’t care if the whole county hears.
“I was there from the beginning, Lucas. I trained the horses. I designed the programs. I stood in that arena night after night while you charmed investors and took the credit.”
“That’s not fair.”
“None of this is fair!” I grab the counter again because my leg is about to give out, because I’ve been standing too long, because my body is betraying me just like everything else. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t watch her take everything that was mine while you stand there and let it happen.”
“What do you want me to do?”
The question is exasperated. Helpless. Like I’m being unreasonable, like I’m asking for something impossible instead of the bare minimum of loyalty from my own husband.
“Choose.” The word comes out raw. Desperate. I hate how desperate it sounds, but I can’t stop it. “Choose me or choose her. Right now.”
Lucas goes still.
The kitchen clock ticks. The refrigerator hums. Somewhere outside, a horse whinnies - probably Storm, probably sensing the tension from a hundred yards away, because horses are smarter than people.
I watch my husband’s face and I wait for him to say the words I need to hear. I choose you. Of course I choose you. There was never any question.
But the seconds stretch on, and he doesn’t say them.
“I’m not doing this,” he says finally. “I’m not playing these games.”
Games. He thinks this is a game.
“Aimie is a professional asset.” His voice has gone cold. Distant. It’s his investor voice, the one he uses in meetings when he’s about to deliver bad news. “We need her to recover what we lost. That’s business, Delilah. It has nothing to do with us.”
“It has everything to do with us!”
“You’re being childish.”
The word lands like a blade between my ribs.
I stare at him - this man I married, this man I loved, this man I gave up my career for, my body for, my entire future for - and I don’t recognize him.
The Lucas I married would never have called me childish.
Would never have looked at me with that cold, dismissive expression, like I’m a problem he’s trying to solve instead of a person he’s supposed to love.
“I can’t believe-” I start, my voice shaking.
“No.” He holds up a hand, cutting me off. “I’m done with this conversation.”
“Lucas, you can’t just-”
“I said I’m done.” He’s already turning away, dismissing me like I’m a servant who’s spoken out of turn. “We’ll talk when you’ve calmed down. When you’re ready to be reasonable.”
“I am being reasonable!” I follow him to the doorway, my leg screaming with every step. “If you would just listen to me for one-”
“Goodbye, Delilah.”
He walks out. Not storms - walks. Calm and controlled, like I’m not worth the energy of an argument. Like my pain is an inconvenience he’s choosing to schedule for later.
“Lucas!” I follow him into the hallway, grabbing the wall for support when my leg threatens to buckle. “Don’t you walk away from me! We’re not finished!”
But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t turn. His boots are heavy and deliberate on the hardwood, each step a punctuation mark at the end of a sentence he won’t let me complete.
“Lucas!”
The front door opens. A shaft of morning light cuts across the floor. I see his silhouette in the doorway - broad shoulders, familiar stance - and for one desperate second, I think he’s going to turn around.
He doesn’t.
The door closes behind him.
I stand in the hallway, words still burning in my throat. All the things I needed to say. All the questions I needed answered. All the years of love and sacrifice and partnership, reduced to his retreating back and the sound of the door clicking shut.
Outside, his truck engine turns over. Gravel crunches under tires.
And then he’s gone.
I don’t move. I can’t move. My leg is throbbing, my heart is pounding, and I’m frozen in this hallway where we used to slow dance in the dark after Allana went to sleep.
You’re being childish.
The words echo in my skull, bouncing off the walls of my memory.
All those years, all those conversations, all those times he said I love you and I need you and you’re my partner in everything - and it comes down to this.
Me standing alone in a hallway, watching him drive away because I dared to ask him to choose.
I asked him to choose me.
And he couldn’t even do that.
The tears come then, hot and furious, spilling down my cheeks before I can stop them. I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the hardwood floor, my bad leg stretched out in front of me, my crutches fallen somewhere I can’t reach.
I don’t know how long I sit there. Long enough for the shaft of sunlight from the window to move across the floor. Long enough for my tears to dry and my breathing to steady. Long enough for something inside me to shift, to harden, to become something other than grief.
He didn’t choose me.
The thought settles into my bones like something permanent. Something that won’t wash out.
I pull myself up from the floor using the wall, retrieve my crutches, and make my way to the guest room. Not our bedroom. I can’t sleep in our bed tonight. Can’t lie there smelling his cologne on the pillows while his words echo in my skull.
I lie there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, and I wait for him to come find me.
He doesn’t.