4. Cameron
— ? —
Cameron
The hotel room is too quiet.
I stand at the window looking out at the Manhattan skyline, all those glittering lights and bustling streets, and all I can think about is how Hannah should be here.
She should be sitting on the bed making fun of the overpriced minibar.
She should be in the bathroom doing her makeup, calling out questions about what I think of her dress options.
She should be here, and she’s not, and the silence feels like an accusation.
I called her earlier to tell her I missed her. The conversation lasted four minutes.
“Have fun,” she said in that flat voice she’s been using lately, the one that means she’s done fighting and has moved on to something worse. Then, just before hanging up: “When you’re back, we need to actually talk.”
“We will. I promise.”
She hung up without saying goodbye, and I stood there holding the phone for a long time afterward, staring at the silent screen, wondering when we stopped being the people who couldn’t wait to hear each other’s voices.
The cufflinks are giving me trouble. These are the ones Hannah gave me for our second anniversary, platinum with a subtle pattern she said reminded her of the first tie I ever wore on a date with her.
I’ve worn them to every major event since.
She used to fasten them for me, her fingers quick and sure at my wrists, some joke she always made about how a man who runs a company should be able to dress himself.
I fumble with them now, alone, and finally get them closed on the third try.
My phone sits on the dresser. I could call her again. Tell her I wish she was here. Ask her what she wants to talk about, really talk about, instead of letting it hang between us like a blade waiting to fall.
I pick up the phone. Put it back down. Pick it up again.
In the end, I pocket it and head for the door. The gala starts in an hour and Violet’s already texted twice about the schedule.
The car drops us at the red carpet twenty minutes before the gala officially begins.
Violet insisted on arriving early, to make an impression before the room fills.
She’s right, probably. She’s usually right about these things.
But standing here in the flash of cameras, smiling for photographers whose names I’ll never know, I can’t help thinking about Hannah at home in our empty house.
“Mr. Jasper! Over here!”
“Cameron, to your left!”
“Where’s Mrs. Jasper tonight?”
The question comes from somewhere in the press line, a photographer with a camera bigger than his head, and I feel it land somewhere it shouldn’t. My smile doesn’t waver. “Home this trip, unfortunately. She sends her regards.”
The cameras keep flashing. I keep smiling. And I try not to think about how easily that lie rolled off my tongue, how I don’t actually know if Hannah sends her regards or if she’s sitting alone in our house wondering why she married a man who keeps leaving her behind.
The venue is a converted warehouse in Chelsea with exposed brick and crystal chandeliers and enough flowers to stock a botanical garden.
The transformation is impressive, industrial bones dressed up in black-tie glamour, and under different circumstances I might appreciate the artistry of it.
Tonight it just feels like another stage where I have to perform.
Inside, the space is already filling with the usual crowd. Tech founders in designer sneakers trying to look casual. Old money in old suits pretending they understand disruption. Models and actors sprinkled through the mix like decorative garnish, pretty faces to photograph for the lifestyle pages.
I work the room on autopilot, shaking hands and making small talk and pretending to be fascinated by whatever the person in front of me is saying.
A tech investor corners me near the bar to discuss trends, dropping names of startups I should care about and probably don’t.
A media mogul’s wife wants to know if I’ve met her favorite actor.
A senator whose name I should remember but don’t wants to talk policy, his hand heavy on my shoulder as he angles for a photo op.
“Cameron Jasper.” The voice belongs to one of the old guard, a man who built his fortune in manufacturing before pivoting to tech investments.
He’s got kind eyes and a firm handshake and he’s looking at me with genuine warmth.
“How’s that brilliant wife of yours? I keep meaning to reach out about her foundation work.
The literacy initiative, right? Impressive stuff. ”
“She’s great,” I say automatically. “Busy as always.”
“I can imagine. Launching a program like that, partnering with what, three schools? Four? That’s no small undertaking. When does it go live?”
I open my mouth to answer and realize I don’t know.
I don’t know how many schools. I don’t know the launch date.
I don’t know the details of the thing my wife has been building for months because I haven’t asked, haven’t listened, haven’t been present enough to absorb the information when she tried to tell me.
“This fall,” I say, which is vague enough to be true. “She’s been putting in incredible hours.”
“I’m sure. Well, tell her I said congratulations. It’s important work she’s doing.”
He moves on, and I stand there with my champagne going flat, trying to remember the last time I asked Hannah about her foundation. The last time I really listened to the answer.
“You seem distracted tonight,” Violet murmurs, appearing at my elbow to rescue me from my own thoughts. She guides me through the crowd with practiced ease, steering us toward a quiet corner near the service corridor. “Everything okay?”
“Fine. Just tired.”
“The Singapore calls have been brutal. You should sleep more.”
“You sound like my mother.”
She laughs, a soft sound that doesn’t quite land the way it’s supposed to. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Now, the reporter from that entertainment outlet is looking for you. Marisse something. She’s been circling for the last twenty minutes.”
“What does she want?”
“The usual. Human interest angle on the brilliant billionaire. I can redirect her if you want.”
“No, it’s fine. Might as well get it over with.”
I take a fresh glass of champagne from a passing server and drain half of it in one go. The bubbles burn going down, doing nothing to quiet the restless feeling in my chest.
My fake face, Hannah used to call my media smile.
The one where you pretend to be a human being instead of a spreadsheet in a suit.
She’d tease me about it after events, mimicking my politician’s handshake and my careful non-answers, and I’d chase her around the kitchen until she was laughing too hard to keep mocking me.
I’d catch her eventually, back her against the counter, and she’d shriek with laughter as I tickled her ribs, both of us breathless and stupid with joy.
I haven’t seen her laugh like that in months. Haven’t seen her smile at me the way she used to, like I was the best part of her day. These days she looks at me like she’s waiting for proof, any proof, that I’m still the man she married, and I keep failing to provide it.
“Mr. Jasper!” A reporter corners me near the bar, red lipstick like a warning sign. Marisse, according to her press badge. Celebrity correspondent for one of those entertainment outlets that masquerades as news. “A moment for the cameras?”
I put on my media smile. “Of course.”
“The company’s success has been astronomical lately,” Marisse says, leaning in with her microphone while her cameraman adjusts the angle. “You must be thrilled. And is this your date for the evening?” She gestures at Violet, who’s standing just behind my shoulder.
“No, this is my assistant, Violet. My wife is at home tonight, unfortunately.”
“Such a shame.” Marisse’s smile sharpens in a way that makes me uneasy, and I recognize the look of a journalist who smells blood.
“Now, Cameron, can I call you Cameron? I have to ask. You’re brilliant, successful, handsome.
Your wife has a background in charity work and teaching, is that right?
How does she handle being married to someone so accomplished? ”
I should shut this down. I should defend Hannah, tell this woman that my wife is brilliant and accomplished in her own right, that she’s built a foundation from nothing and changed hundreds of lives and works harder than anyone I know.
I should say that I’m the lucky one, that she makes me want to be better, that every good thing in my life traces back to her.
But I’m tired, and the question feels harmless, and the camera is rolling, and the words that come out of my mouth are not the words I should say.
“Oh, you know. We manage. Hannah’s got her projects, I’ve got mine.”
The reporter pushes. Don’t I worry she feels overshadowed?
She keeps busy in her own way. The words come out wrong, patronizing, and I try to fix it. “I mean, she’s passionate about her causes-”
“Some might say those are hobbies more than careers.” Marisse’s smile widens, and I can see her mentally composing the headline. “Is it challenging, being married to someone without your drive?”
“Hannah’s great. She’s a little scattered sometimes, but in a cute way, you know? My sweet, chaotic wife. She’d lose her head if it wasn’t attached. But that’s part of her charm.”
The cluster of guests around us laughs.
I don’t realize what I’ve done.
Marisse thanks me for my time and moves on to her next target, and I drift through the rest of the evening on autopilot. More handshakes. More small talk. More champagne I don’t taste and conversations I won’t remember.
Someone proposes a toast to innovation, to disruption, to the future we’re all building together, and I raise my glass a half-second late, agreeing to something I didn’t hear. A group laughs at a joke I missed and I join in, my timing off, my attention somewhere else entirely.
The hours blur together, faces and names and pleasantries, until finally the crowd starts to thin and I can make my excuses. My feet ache from standing, my face aches from smiling, and all I want is to get back to my hotel room and sleep for twelve hours.
The walk back to the hotel takes twenty minutes through streets still humming with late-night energy.
Taxis honking, people spilling out of bars, the distant wail of a siren somewhere in the city that never sleeps.
I could have taken a car but I needed the air, needed the movement, needed something to tire out my body enough that my brain might finally shut up.
Halfway back, I pass a couple arguing on the sidewalk outside a bar.
The woman is crying, mascara streaking down her cheeks, and the man is pleading with her, his hands outstretched, his voice desperate and apologetic.
I can’t hear what they’re saying but I can read the body language: he fucked up, she’s done, and he’s only now realizing what he’s about to lose.
I look away and keep walking, that vague discomfort settling in my chest that comes from watching a moment too intimate, too raw. A moment that has nothing to do with me.
By the time I make it back to the hotel, it’s past midnight and I’m exhausted in a way that goes deeper than just tired.
I keep thinking about Hannah’s voice on the phone, that flatness that used to be warmth.
When you’re back, we need to actually talk.
I keep wondering what she wants to talk about, and whether I’m ready to hear it.
Violet walks me to my suite, going over the schedule for tomorrow. A late-morning round of meetings, then the closing dinner. Three days of this and then I can go home. Three days and then I can figure out how to fix whatever is breaking between me and my wife.
At my door, she lingers.
“You were perfect tonight,” she says, honey-smooth. Her hand brushes my arm as she hands me the tablet with tomorrow’s agenda. The touch lasts a beat too long, her fingers warm against my sleeve, and she doesn’t step back the way she should.
I step back instead.
She smiles like she’s got all the time in the world.