11. Lucille
— ? —
Lucille
I wait for him to disappear.
It’s what I know. What I’ve learned to expect after two years of grand words followed by empty chairs. Hugo Kensington is excellent at declarations, at sweeping statements and passionate speeches that make your heart race in the moment and leave you cold when morning comes and he’s already gone.
So I wait. I count the days. I tell myself that by the end of the week, the flowers will stop coming. By the end of two weeks, he’ll have found some excuse, a work obligation, a label emergency, a reason more important than the promises he made in my studio at midnight.
The first lily of the valley appears the morning after his declaration, leaning against my studio door when I arrive at seven.
The second appears the next day. And the next.
By the end of the first week, I’ve started keeping them in a small glass on my desk, a fragile bouquet of white bells that grows one stem at a time. There’s never a card. Never a note. Just the flower, faithful as a heartbeat, waiting for me every single morning.
I have no idea what to do with it.
Alice watches me arrange them with a look caught between concern and confusion.
“He’s still doing it?” she asks on day twelve, perched on my studio couch with her coffee.
“Every morning.”
“Has he tried to contact you? Called? Texted? Shown up demanding to talk?”
“No.” I turn the glass slightly, adjusting the angle of the stems. “Nothing. Just the flowers.”
“That’s…” She trails off, frowning. “That’s weird, right? That’s not how Hugo operates. He should be showing up with speeches and dramatic gestures and…”
“That’s what I thought too.”
“And?”
I don’t answer, because I don’t have an answer.
The Hugo I know would have pushed by now.
Would have shown up at Alice’s apartment or ambushed me at the studio or sent messages until I broke down and responded.
The Hugo I know doesn’t do quiet consistency.
He does dramatic bursts followed by long silences.
This Hugo, the one leaving flowers without asking for anything in return, is someone I don’t recognize.
And that unsettles me more than any speech ever could.
The divorce papers sit in a folder on my desk, still unsigned. I’ve called my lawyer twice to ask about the delay, and both times she’s told me the same thing: Hugo’s attorney has been in contact, but Hugo himself is refusing to sign.
“Is there anything I can do to compel him?” I asked the second time.
“You can petition the court to proceed without his signature, but it will extend the timeline significantly. My recommendation is to give him a few more weeks. Sometimes the reality of the situation takes time to sink in.”
A few more weeks. A few more weeks of limbo, of not-quite-married and not-quite-divorced, of lily of the valley accumulating on my desk like evidence of what I’m afraid to name.
I should be furious. I should call his lawyer and demand he sign immediately and stop dragging this out.
Instead, I find myself watching the door every morning, waiting for the knock that tells me today’s flower has arrived.
I hate myself for it.
***
The charity fashion event is unavoidable.
We RSVP’d six months ago, back when I still believed my marriage might survive, back when the idea of appearing together at a public function didn’t make my stomach clench with dread.
Now the invitation sits on my desk like a land mine, and I have two choices: go alone and face the inevitable questions about my husband’s absence, or go together and pretend everything is fine.
Neither option is good. But one option keeps the divorce private a little longer, keeps the gossip columnists from circling like vultures, keeps my new brand launch from being overshadowed by the spectacular collapse of my personal life.
So I text Hugo for the first time since he left my studio.
The Hartwell Foundation gala is Saturday. We RSVP’d together. Are you still planning to attend?
His response comes within minutes.
I’ll be there. Whatever you need.
Whatever I need. As if it’s that simple. As if showing up to one event erases two years of not showing up to anything else.
But I can’t think about that right now. I have a dress to finish, one of my own designs, a deep burgundy silk that I’ve been working on for weeks, and a public face to prepare.
For one night, I need to be Hugo Kensington’s wife. I need to smile and make small talk and pretend that my life isn’t falling apart beneath the surface.
I’ve gotten very good at pretending.
***
Saturday arrives too quickly.
Hugo picks me up at Alice’s apartment, which feels strange, my husband collecting me from my best friend’s home like a prom date rather than a partner.
He’s waiting by the car when I come downstairs, dressed in a charcoal suit I recognize instantly.
I altered that suit. I reinforced the seams myself, months ago, when I still believed in invisible acts of love.
He looks good. Tired, but good. The beard is gone, and his hair has been properly cut, and there’s a shift in the way he holds himself, quieter, somehow. Less like a performance.
“You look beautiful,” he says when I reach the bottom of the stairs.
“Thank you.”
“The dress, is that one of yours?”
“Yes.”
“It’s stunning.” His eyes move over the silk, the drape of the fabric, the way it catches the streetlight. “You should be wearing your own designs all the time. They’re better than anything I’ve ever seen on a runway.”
I don’t know how to respond to that, so I don’t. I just walk to the car and let him open the door for me, and we drive to the gala in a silence loaded with everything we’re not saying.
The venue is a converted warehouse in the Arts District, all exposed brick and industrial lighting, packed with the kind of beautiful people who attend charity events to be seen rather than to give.
I recognize faces from industry parties, from fashion week after-parties, from the endless circuit of obligations that constitutes life among the LA elite.
Hugo’s hand hovers at my lower back as we enter.
He’s not touching me. There’s a careful inch of space between his palm and the bare skin above my dress’s low back. But I can feel the heat of him anyway, radiating through that small gap, and my body responds before my mind can override it.
I hate that he can still do this to me. Hate that two years of neglect haven’t killed the part of me that wants to lean back into his warmth. Hate that my heart hasn’t caught up with my head yet.
“Lucille! Hugo!” A woman I vaguely recognize sweeps toward us with champagne in hand. “I was hoping you’d be here. The video was simply devastating, in a good way, of course. The whole industry has been talking about it.”
The video. Of course. Even here, even now, Ginny’s shadow follows us.
“Thank you,” Hugo says smoothly. “We’re just glad the music resonated with people.”
“Oh, it definitely resonated. My daughter has watched it about a thousand times.” The woman laughs. “She’s convinced you and Ginny are meant to be together. I keep telling her that’s not how real life works, but you know teenagers.”
I feel Hugo stiffen beside me.
“Ginny and I are just colleagues,” he says, and there’s an edge to his voice I’ve rarely heard. “The video was a work obligation, nothing more. My wife is the only woman I’m meant to be with.”
The woman’s eyebrows rise. “Oh! Of course, I didn’t mean to imply…”
“Enjoy the gala,” Hugo says, steering me away before she can finish.
We move through the crowd, his hand still hovering at my back, and I feel the eyes on us, curious, speculative, hungry for drama. Hugo Kensington and his wife, appearing together after weeks of scandal and silence. The tabloids will have a field day tomorrow.
“I need air,” I say after twenty minutes of smiles and small talk.
Hugo nods. “There’s a terrace through those doors. I saw it when we came in.”
We slip away from the crowd and find a small alcove off the main hallway, not quite outside, but quieter, darker, removed from the glitter and noise. I lean against the wall and close my eyes, trying to steady my breathing.
“Are you okay?” Hugo asks.
“I’m fine.”
“Lucille.”
“I said I’m fine.” I open my eyes and face him. “This is just… a lot. Pretending everything’s normal when nothing is.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” The anger rises before I can stop it, two years of swallowed frustration finally finding a vent.
“Do you have any idea what it’s like to stand in a room full of people who are all wondering if your husband is in love with someone else?
Who watched that video and decided you’re the obstacle in some great romance? ”
“I never wanted that narrative…”
“It doesn’t matter what you wanted. It’s what happened.
And I’m the one who has to live with it.
” I push off the wall, suddenly unable to stand still.
“I’m the one who gets the sympathetic looks and the pitying questions and the constant, endless reminders that my husband had more chemistry with his ex-girlfriend on camera than he’s ever had with me. ”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?” I turn on him, all the things I’ve been holding back finally spilling over. “Because here’s the thing, Hugo. Ginny was never the problem. She was just the symptom.”
He goes still. “What do you mean?”
“I mean the rot was there long before she showed up. Two years of it. Two years of empty chairs and broken promises and being an afterthought in my own marriage.” My voice breaks, but I force myself to continue.
“Two years of waiting for you to notice me. Reaching for you and finding nothing. Loving you in secret because you never made space for me to love you openly.”
“Lucille…”
“Ginny didn’t break us. You broke us. You broke us every time you chose work over me.
Every time you promised things would change and then let them stay the same.
Every time you looked right through me like I was furniture.
” I swipe angrily at my eyes. “She was just the thing that made it impossible to ignore anymore.”