17. Olivia
Olivia
The dream was over.
Driving home felt like moving closer to a prison. Each familiar mile marker made her chest tighten. Her skin still remembered Nicholas's touch, his kiss, and the warmth of waking up next to someone who made her feel wanted.
She needed to focus. The car was getting closer.
She turned the corner, and her stomach dropped.
The silver Porsche sat in the driveway, catching the afternoon sun like a warning.
She parked in the garage, turned off the engine, and sat in silence for a minute with her hands on the wheel. The air felt heavy and hard to breathe. She wasn't ready.
She went inside anyway.
Mark was at the center island with a corkscrew in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. He turned when he heard her come in, already composed, already wearing the expression she recognized as the one he deployed when he wanted something.
"It's a little early to start drinking, isn't it?" she said carefully. "How come you're not playing golf? It's a beautiful day out."
Mark smiled. It didn't reach anything behind his eyes. "I skipped golf today. I did a lot of thinking while you were gone last night. I thought we could sit down, talk over a bottle of wine, then go out for a nice dinner tonight."
A rush of heat moved through her chest—not warmth. Something closer to alarm.
"I'm going up to put my things away and use the bathroom. I'll be down in a few minutes."
"I'll be waiting. Don't be too long—I want to share the wine with you."
She didn't look back.
The master bedroom felt stale and airless.
She sat on the edge of the bed and tried to organize her thoughts, but the wrongness of the situation kept them from forming.
This wasn't like him. Mark didn't skip golf.
Mark didn't just open a bottle of wine in the afternoon and suggest conversation. Mark didn't think while she was gone.
Something was coming. She could feel its shape, though she couldn't see it clearly.
She splashed cold water on her face, took a breath, and went back downstairs.
He sat on the couch with two glasses already poured, waiting with the careful patience of someone who had practiced this moment. Olivia picked the armchair across from him. The distance felt necessary. It was the only thing in the room she could control.
"You could come sit next to me."
"I would rather sit here if we're going to talk."
His jaw tightened. For a moment, the real Mark showed before he hid it again. He handed her the glass. She didn't want it, but took it anyway. She needed something to take the edge off.
He touched his glass to hers. "To us."
She didn't raise hers.
She just drank.
"Okay," Mark began, leaning forward with the careful sincerity of someone who had practiced this.
"I have a few things to say. I know what happened the other night wasn't good.
I should have given you the space you wanted.
But you have to remember, you're my wife, and with that comes certain duties. "
Anger moved through her, slow and clean. She kept her face still and let him keep going.
"I knew you wouldn't be home last night.
I went out for drinks with the guys after work.
One of them—Bill, I don't think you've ever met him—started talking to me.
I asked why he hadn't played much golf with us lately.
He said he was having problems with his wife.
Always busy with work and golf, she complained she wasn't getting enough attention.
So he decided to spend more time with her.
" Mark paused, looking at her like he'd just presented irrefutable evidence.
"That's when it hit me. Maybe if we spent more time together and had more sex, you would feel better.
I always feel better after we have sex. You tell me how good it feels. So, do you think we should try it?"
Olivia stared at him.
His reasoning hung between them, empty and insulting, like a gift wrapped in newspaper.
"So this is why you're not playing golf today," she said, her voice flat and even. "You opened a bottle of wine in the afternoon, hoping I'd relax so we could go upstairs and have sex."
"Well, sort of." He said it without embarrassment.
"Wine relaxes you. I figured if we spent a little more time together and started having more sex, you'd feel happier.
I want to watch you get dressed really sexy tonight, so we can go out and I can show you off.
Then things can go back to the way they were. "
She didn't blink. Didn't move.
The man across from her felt like a stranger wearing a familiar face. The worst part was realizing she had spent five years pretending he wasn't.
"Mark, you really don't have a clue, do you?
" Her voice was steady—not raised, not performing.
Just honest in a way, she no longer had the energy to soften.
"After five years of treating me like a possession, you think you can open a bottle of wine and take me upstairs for your manly release, and everything is forgotten?
" She set her glass down. "I told you last week.
I want a separation. I need time alone to think.
Last night was peaceful. No stress. No ridicule.
I'm going to look for an apartment. Until then, I'll sleep in the guest room.
I have no interest in having sex with you.
I'm done being used. I would appreciate you respecting my space. "
Mark's face turned from pink to deep, furious red in just a few seconds.
The nice-guy performance evaporated completely.
He stood up. His voice shook the room.
"You're a selfish bitch. I give up golf and stay home to wait for you after you've been out all night—God knows what you did or who you fucked.
That's probably why you don't want sex today.
" He was already moving toward the stairs, his voice dropping into something colder and more deliberate.
"Don't worry. When you're horny this week, don't come looking for me.
Have it your way, Olivia. I'm going out tonight.
Maybe I'll find someone who appreciates being with a good-looking man with money. "
His footsteps hammered up the stairs.
Olivia sat in the quiet he left behind.
And smiled.
It was the first honest moment they'd shared in years.
An hour later, he came back downstairs in a suit.
He looked sharp. His expression was bitter and set. He glanced at her once—still in the same chair, phone in hand—and paused at the door.
"Last chance."
"Thank you," she said pleasantly. "But you go have a good time."
Something moved across his face. "When I get back tonight, I want all your things out of the master bedroom. It's my room. I don't want you in it unless you're going to live up to your wifely duties."
"I'll move my things out."
The door slammed. Tires screeched on the driveway. Then came silence, wide and clean and entirely hers.
She waited fifteen minutes to be certain before going upstairs.
She packed methodically, moving between rooms with the quiet focus of someone who had made up her mind and was now just following through.
The guest room was small. The bathroom was cramped, with no makeup station, no walk-in closet, and none of the carefully arranged surfaces that had always felt more like a show than comfort.
It was inconvenient.
As she closed the guest room door behind her, something settled in her chest that she hadn't felt in five years.
She was home.
She settled onto the couch and let the quiet of the house surround her. She opened her iPad to the romance novel she'd been reading, and two hours slipped by without her noticing. The story took her to a simple, peaceful place while the real world waited outside.
At 10:30, she checked the time. It was late enough. She went upstairs, locked the guest room door, and got into bed. Her body was tired in the best way—a satisfied ache from Nicholas still warm inside her, like an ember that hadn't gone out.
The memory of him moved through her without warning—his hands, his eyes, the way he'd said her name. Heat rushed through her. She pressed her legs together and caught her breath.
Oh, what he does to me!
She was almost asleep when the house shifted.
There was a bang from the kitchen door. Heavy, uneven footsteps crossed the floor below. Then the stairs creaked, each step louder than needed—the sound of a man who had been drinking and wanted everyone to know he was home.
The master bedroom door slammed.
Olivia let out a long, slow breath.
Safe.
She was almost under again when the master bedroom door creaked open. Footsteps in the hall. Then a knock at her door—soft at first, almost reasonable.
She stayed perfectly still.
The second knock was harder. More forceful. The kind that wasn't really asking.
"Mark, I'm sleeping. I'm exhausted. Please let me sleep."
"I want to talk. Just for a few minutes."
"We'll talk tomorrow."
"It can't wait until tomorrow."
The doorknob rattled. Then came a sound that turned her blood cold—a metallic scraping, deliberate and methodical.
A screwdriver.
The bolt turned.
The door swung open.
Olivia sat up fast, pulling the blanket to her chest. "Mark, please. Leave me alone."
He ignored her completely.
He walked to the bed and sat at the foot—shorts and a T-shirt, the smell of stale liquor and sweat filling the small room immediately. He looked at her with the unfocused, determined expression of a man drunk enough to have suspended all better judgment.
"Mark, you've had a lot to drink. I can see it and smell it. Let's have this conversation tomorrow when you're sober."
"I can't." He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "I was at the bar, and there was this woman there. Hot. But after talking to her for a few minutes, I realized I didn't want her tonight. I wanted you."
Her skin crawled. Her shoulders tensed. He wasn't going to listen. She could already see it in the set of his jaw and the blank look in his eyes.
"Mark, I appreciate that. But please go back to bed and let me sleep."