CHAPTER EIGHT
Nate
After the bumper to bumper, stop-start drive I finally parked my SUV in the underground garage for our building and, dragging my case, took the elevator up eighty floors to the penthouse.
I was emotionally and physically drained, my belly in knots with the fear of what was to come.
As soon as the elevator reached the top floor and the doors slid open my gut lurched with grief.
I knew before I’d even stepped out of the elevator that my relationship was irreparable.
For the ten years we’d lived here the framed architectural drawing of Erik’s tallest building, the Sky Ladder, was the first thing I’d seen when the doors opened.
It gave me comfort to see it, made me feel like I was home at last. The tall, clean lines of the building reached for the stars, as I’d done during my quest for an acting career.
But now as the doors opened, I saw a blank white wall.
My breath caught as I stared at the absence and wrongness of it.
Erik had removed the ladder…there was no going back!
What the fuck?
How dare he?
My husband could be many things, manipulative, controlling, emotionally detached, and jealous, but I’d never thought he was a coward. I never thought he’d move out without even talking things through and trying to save our marriage.
I let out a defeated sigh, then stepped out of the elevator and dragged my case down the hall and around the corner into the vast open plan lounge and kitchen diner with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the famous Manhattan skyline.
I let go of the case handle and strode towards the oversized dining table where a hefty manila envelope sat.
As I got closer, I noticed the platinum wedding band on top of the envelope.
I stopped in my tracks; pain blossomed in my chest, sharp and immediate, as if I’d been punched in the sternum. I couldn’t breathe.
A noise in the direction of the hallway to the bedrooms stole my attention.
Someone was here. I didn’t move, my mind racing through possibilities in the wake of the Paris attack.
Were we being burgled? Was someone else trying to kill me?
I heard footsteps in the hallway and then a waspish male Norwegian accented voice said,
“Thank goodness this is the last of it, now let’s get out of here before your ex—“ Cole stopped speaking as he stepped through the doorway and his shocked watery green eyes affixed on me. So, there was no burglar, or assassin, it was far worse. I was drained from jetlag, and weighed down with sadness. Now I was face-to-face with the twink who seduced my husband and ended my marriage. Cole worked as Erik’s personal assistant, a job gained through nepotism, not talent.
He was the antithesis of me; short in stature with a skinny build, a deathly pale complexion with close-cropped dark hair.
He always held his mouth in a moue of distaste like he’d licked something nasty.
I know, I’m bitter, but as far as I was concerned Cole was unremarkable.
I guess he had hidden talents, and somehow, he’d given my husband something I couldn’t.
When Erik stepped through the doorway and his silver-grey eyes met mine…
in that moment I got it. It was as if I was seeing, truly seeing Erik for the first time.
I understood myself; I knew what I wanted, and what I didn’t want.
You see, in that moment I felt a little bit sorry for Cole, who was now standing straight-backed with a triumphant expression on his face–as if he’d won a game I didn’t even know I was part of.
I hadn’t noticed how quickly Erik was aging.
I’d been out of the country for just a week but even in that short time he was looking older, a little more grizzled.
When we met Erik was twenty years older than me and the age gap was irrelevant.
I’d adored him because of who he was and how he treated me.
He was creative, wealthy, dominant, and exciting.
Back then I didn’t have a problem stroking his ego to make him feel young and virile.
But, now I realized how much I’d changed.
Not long before I met Erik, I’d lost my dad under horrible circumstances, so I’d desperately needed a strong male influence in my life, someone to look after me, guide me and show me the world.
I’d needed Erik then, but didn’t need him now, not in the same way.
We’d formed a strong emotional bond that I’d hoped would last forever.
But it didn’t. I’d truly fallen out of love with him.
I glanced at what Cole was holding, and then it hit me how na?ve, how trusting, and how fucking dumb I’d been.
Three bagged suits in clear plastic wrap were draped over one of his arms, and he pulled a large wheeled silver suitcase.
I knew immediately that none of those suits belonged to Erik because my husband was fussy about tailoring and fabric colour.
His signature palate was black and white, all-the-time.
During our years together I’d occasionally tried to coerce him into colours, pinstripe, herring bone tweed, even a patterned shirt, or tie.
But Erik’s vanity was king. He said black made him look trimmer, he knew what he liked, and wouldn’t be swayed, the end!
The silver suitcase Cole was taking with him had sat in our walk-in closet room for a long time.
I’d thought nothing of it. It wasn’t mine so I figured it must be Erik’s.
But no, it wasn’t Erik’s at all. The case was in the walk-in when I returned from Toronto after wrapping on Need to Know.
I saw this set up oh-so-clearly now. Bile churned in my empty stomach and the burning acid threatened to overwhelm me with nausea.
Erik had been adamant he didn’t want me to do the movie.
He’d fought to make me stay, but I’d chosen the movie over his wish for me to be at his beck and call 24/7.
Cole flirted with my husband in front of me from the first time we’d met.
Maybe Erik kept the temptation at arm’s length for a while?
Maybe not? No matter, because I was sure now that Erik had given into the flattery of his new toy boy, and while I was away for six-months of training and filming, Erik moved Cole into our penthouse, and he’d probably moved Cole into our Palisades house in LA too, but any evidence of that was consumed by fire.
They’d been living together in our home, fucking in our bed, in our shower, on our couch…
maybe even on the dining table? Erik did love to be bent over and railed against that sturdy table.
I inhaled a calming breath; I would not lose my dignity in front of the boy my husband was fucking. I wouldn’t give Cole the satisfaction he seemed to covet.
“Nate…I uh, didn’t expect you home so soon,” Erik said warily as he moved to stand beside Cole, a guiding hand pressed to the small of his new guy’s back.
They eyeballed one another, sharing a silent conversation.
I once shared looks of silent conversation with my husband.
The sight of the intimacy between them made anger blaze in my chest and I wanted to punch something, or someone!
“No shit. Sorry to wreck your plan to dodge the consequences of your actions. We need to talk, but first things first…Cole, get the fuck out of my home,” I said coldly.
Whatever was said between my husband and I was no business of his.
He stood erect and haughty as if he would demand to stay, and indeed, had a right to be here.
I glared at him and lurched forward. He flinched, and then scowled.
“I’ll be in the car. Don’t be long, babe,” he directed at my husband, and then turned to glare at me.
“I hope your shitty movie bombs, asshole,” he added peevishly.
Then, as if he thought he’d be out of attack range he dragged the silver case taking the longest route around the L shaped sectional couch.
I’m not a violent man and I wouldn’t hurt the dude for becoming Erik’s latest toy.
I’d known Erik for long enough to understand that the boy could not have seduced my husband if Erik wasn’t open to being seduced.
It seemed Erik was up for it with anyone with a hard dick and a pulse.
Among the swirl of emotions, the anger, betrayal, and pain, I saw a chink of light and I was buoyed by the realization that, finally, Erik Thorne wasn’t my problem anymore.
I was no longer responsible for cradling Erik’s fragile ego, no longer the vessel for his worries about having lost his creative edge, or his constant fears about aging.
I listened for the sound of Cole’s wheeled case being dragged into the elevator, and when the doors slid closed and the car began its descent, I finally spoke.
“What happened to us?” I asked my tone crestfallen.
In the forty-eight hours since the blogger blindsided me on camera I’d moved through all stages of grief at light speed.
The blinders were finally off. Now I was seeing Erik as he truly was, a talented, creative, yet flawed, vain man, desperately trying to cling on to youth...
by fucking a youth! He’d achieved a lot of amazing things throughout his career, and the fact he was the head of a global architecture firm put him in the annals of architecture history along with the likes of Frank Gehry, Zaha Adid, and Santiago Calatrava.
I’d always be in awe of his designs, but now I was able to see his genius as separate from the man—mine no longer.
My stomach twisted into knots, but not with attraction, desire, and want.
Thanks to Jack I now remembered what those emotions felt like.
I was knotted up inside thinking about the years of lies Erik had told me, and the years of me lying to myself, telling myself that I was in a happy, fulfilling relationship.