13. Graham
GRAHAM
I stood at the door of my mother's townhouse and realized I'd been standing there for maybe a full minute without knocking.
The driver was still idling at the curb behind me.
I could feel him watching, waiting. I could get back in.
I could go somewhere else, anywhere else.
I could go back to Mara's door and try again, except Elise had told me to go and I didn't have a different answer than the one I'd tried yesterday.
The one that hadn't worked. The one that had left her staring at me like I was a stranger.
I knocked before I could change my mind.
My mother's housekeeper opened the door and let me in without comment.
She took my coat, her face carefully neutral the way it always was.
I could hear my mother's voice from the drawing room, already talking to someone on the phone.
The housekeeper gestured toward the room and left me to it, her footsteps quiet on the marble floor.
Beatrice was seated at the small writing desk near the window, the phone pressed to her ear. She glanced up when I stepped in, looked me over once with those sharp eyes, and held up one finger. Wait.
I waited.
She wrapped up the call inside of two minutes, her voice polite and clipped as she told whoever it was that she'd call them back tomorrow. She set the phone down with a soft click and turned to face me fully. She didn't stand. "Graham."
"Mother."
"I wasn't expecting you." Her tone said she'd been expecting me for days. "Sit."
I sat in the chair across from her, the leather cool under my hands.
The room was pristine as always, everything arranged just so.
The October light coming through the tall windows was flat and gray, washing out the colors of the Persian rug.
Nothing was ever out of place in my mother's home. Nothing was ever allowed to be.
"You look terrible," she said.
"I didn't sleep."
"I can see that." She folded her hands in her lap, studying me with that expression I'd known my entire life — the one that said she already knew what I was going to say and had decided it was wrong. "Has Elise come home?"
"No. She's staying with a friend."
Beatrice didn't blink. "Since when?"
"Since the speech."
"I see." She let that sit between us for a moment, the silence heavy. "And you came here because?"
I didn't have an answer that didn't sound pathetic. Because I don't know what else to do. Because my wife won't talk to me and I can't fix this. I couldn't say that. "I wanted to talk."
"About your marriage."
"Yes."
My mother leaned back slightly, her posture perfect as always. She was wearing a gray dress that probably cost more than most people made in a month. Every hair in place. Every line of her body controlled. "All right. Let's talk about your marriage."
I waited for her to continue. She didn't. She just watched me, and I felt like I was twelve years old again, called into her office to explain why I'd gotten a poor mark in mathematics.
"It was a rough night," I said finally. "The speech. There was a misunderstanding?—"
"A misunderstanding." She repeated the word like it tasted bad. "Graham, your wife left after the biggest speech of your career and hasn't come home. That's not a misunderstanding. That's a marriage falling apart."
The bluntness of it hit me harder than I expected. My chest tightened, my throat going dry. "It's not falling apart."
"Isn't it?"
"No." I said it too quickly, heard the defensiveness in my own voice. "We've hit a rough patch. That's normal. Every marriage has them."
Beatrice's expression didn't change. "Not every marriage was a mistake from the start."
There it was. I'd known it was coming, but hearing her say it out loud still made something in me go cold. "Don't."
"Don't what? Tell you the truth?" She leaned forward, her eyes sharp and unforgiving.
"You married the wrong woman, Graham. I told you that eleven years ago and you didn't listen.
You were convinced you knew better. You were in love.
" She said the last word like it was a diagnosis, something unfortunate that happened to weak men.
"I am in love with her."
"Are you? Or are you in love with the idea of proving me wrong?"
God, I wanted to leave. I wanted to walk out of this room and never come back, but I stayed in the chair because I didn't have anywhere else to go. My hands were clenched on the armrests. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"I know more than you think." Beatrice stood, moving to the side table where she kept the tea service.
She didn't offer me any. She never did. She poured herself a cup, the movements precise and unhurried, like she had all the time in the world.
"Elise is a lovely girl. I've never said otherwise.
She's charming. She has good taste. She's been an asset to the gallery in her own way. "
"She's been more than an asset."
"Has she?" My mother turned back to me, the teacup in her hand, steam rising from it in a thin curl. "Then why is she gone?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't.
"You know who would be a real partner to you?" Beatrice sipped her tea, watching me over the rim. "Petra Whitlock."
My stomach dropped. "Jesus, Mother."
"Don't curse at me." She set the cup down on the saucer with a soft clink.
"I'm serious. Petra is everything you need.
She understands the business. She comes from the right background.
She has her own money, her own reputation.
She's not some gold digger who married you for access to a world she could never enter on her own. "
"Elise isn't a gold digger."
"Then what is she?"
The question landed like a punch. I opened my mouth and nothing came out.
What was Elise? My wife. The woman I loved.
The one who made everything work. Except I couldn't say any of that without sounding like an idiot because she'd asked me nearly the same question yesterday — What have I been to the gallery?
— and I hadn't known how to answer her either.
Beatrice saw the hesitation. Of course she did. Nothing got past her. "You don't know, do you?"
"I know exactly what she is."
"Then tell me."
"She's my wife."
"That's a title, Graham. Not an answer." My mother's voice was calm, reasonable, the way it always was when she was dismantling an argument piece by piece. "What does she do? What does she bring to your life that you couldn't have without her?"
"Everything," I said. My throat felt tight, my pulse hammering in my neck. "She brings everything."
"Be specific."
I couldn't. I sat there, trapped in that chair, and I couldn't think of a single specific thing that would make sense to her.
"You're proving my point." Beatrice picked up her tea again, taking another delicate sip. "Petra would be a true partner. She'd stand beside you as an equal. She wouldn't be hiding in the background, resentful that you're getting the recognition she thinks she deserves."
"Elise isn't resentful."
"Isn't she? Then why did she leave?"
I didn't have an answer. God, I hated that I didn't have an answer. I hated that my mother could sit there, so calm and sure of herself, and tear my life apart with questions I couldn't answer.
My mother sat back down, her gaze steady on me. "You have a choice to make, Graham. You can keep trying to salvage something that was never going to work, or you can move forward with someone who actually fits your life."
"I'm not replacing Elise."
"Why not?"
"Because I love her."
"Love isn't enough." Beatrice's voice was gentler now, almost kind, which somehow made it worse. "You're building an empire. You need someone who can build it with you. Elise can't do that. She's too... fragile. Too emotional. She doesn't have the backbone for this world."
The words made me angry, but I didn't know how to argue against them. Elise had left. She'd walked out. If she had the backbone my mother was talking about, wouldn't she have stayed? Wouldn't she have fought?
"She's been doing it for eleven years," I said.
"Has she? Or have you been doing it while she arranges flowers and smiles at collectors?" My mother set her cup down. "I've seen her at your events, Graham. She's lovely. She's gracious. But she's not a partner. She's... decoration."
The description was so wrong it made me angry, a hot flush creeping up my neck. But I couldn't find the words to argue.
"This isn't about Petra," I said.
"No. It's about the family money." Beatrice set her cup down with a soft click, her eyes meeting mine directly.
"You stand to inherit a considerable fortune, Graham.
You know that. Your father and I built that wealth over decades, and we didn't do it so you could throw it away on a marriage that's making you miserable. "
There it was. The thing she hadn't said outright but had been circling since I walked in. My chest felt tight, my pulse hammering hard enough I could feel it in my temples. "You're threatening me."
"I'm not threatening you. I'm reminding you what's at stake." She met my eyes, her expression unreadable. "You have responsibilities. To the gallery. To the family name. To your own future. Elise doesn't fit into that future, and I think you know it."
"You're wrong."
"Am I?" She tilted her head slightly, the way she did when she knew she'd already won. "Then why are you here, Graham? If your marriage is fine, if Elise is everything you need, why did you come to me?"
I didn't have an answer. I'd come because I didn't know what else to do, but I couldn't say that without admitting she was right.
"I wanted your advice," I said finally.
"Then here it is." Beatrice leaned forward slightly, her hands folded neatly in her lap.
"End it with Elise. Cleanly, respectfully.
Give her whatever she wants financially — be generous, I'm not suggesting you cheat her.
And then move forward. Petra is interested.
She's made that clear. She'd be good for you.
Good for the gallery. Good for the family. "
"I'm not doing that."
"Why not?"
"Because the marriage can work." I said it like saying it would make it true. "We've been together for eleven years. We've built a life. I'm not throwing that away because of one bad night."
Beatrice's expression softened, just slightly, and that was somehow worse than her sharpness. "One bad night? Graham, this has been building for years. You just haven't been paying attention."
"That's not true."
"Isn't it? When was the last time you and Elise had a real conversation? When was the last time you asked her what she wanted?"
I thought of yesterday, standing at Mara's door, offering Elise a show and money. I'd thought I was giving her what she wanted. She'd asked me one question — What have I been to the gallery? — and I hadn't been able to answer. She'd told me to go.
My mother was watching me. She could see it all on my face.
"You're a good man," she said quietly. "You're a brilliant businessman. But you're not a good husband, not to Elise. You never have been. And staying in a marriage that doesn't work isn't noble. It's just stubborn."
"I'm not giving up on her."
"Then what are you going to do?"
I didn't know. I wanted to say I'd figure it out, that I'd find a way to fix it, but the words stuck in my throat because I'd been trying to figure it out for two days and I had nothing.
"I'll talk to her," I said.
"And say what?"
"Whatever she needs to hear."
Beatrice shook her head slowly. "You don't even know what that is."
She was right. God, she was right, and I hated it. I hated that she could sit there and pick apart my life like it was a business deal gone bad.
I stood. The chair scraped against the floor, too loud in the quiet room. My legs felt unsteady. "I should go."
"Graham." My mother's voice stopped me before I reached the door. "I'm not saying this to hurt you. I'm saying it because I'm your mother and I want what's best for you. Petra is the right match. Elise isn't. The sooner you accept that, the better off you'll be."
I turned back to look at her. She was still seated, her hands folded in her lap, perfectly composed. She believed every word she was saying. She thought she was helping.
"I'm not replacing her," I said again.
"Then you're a fool."
Maybe I was. I walked out of the drawing room, grabbed my coat from the hall stand, my hands shaking slightly as I pulled it on.
The housekeeper appeared from somewhere, silent as always, and opened the front door for me.
I left without saying goodbye. The door shut behind me with a soft, final click.
The driver was still waiting, the car idling at the curb. I got in, the leather seat cold against my back. I gave him an address that wasn't home and wasn't Mara's. Somewhere else. Anywhere else. I didn't even know where I was going. I just needed to move.
As we pulled away from the curb, I caught a glimpse of my mother through the tall windows. She was standing now, watching me go, her silhouette dark against the gray light.
She thought I'd come around. She thought I'd see reason, that I'd give up on Elise and do what she wanted.
She was wrong.