4. Fran #2
The bathroom is blessedly empty. I lock myself in the farthest stall, sink down onto the toilet seat with my feet pulled up, and finally let myself cry.
It’s not pretty crying. It’s the ugly kind, the kind that makes your whole body shake, that comes with sounds you can’t control, that leaves you gasping for air like you’ve forgotten how breathing works.
I press my hands over my mouth and try to muffle it, but the sobs keep coming, wave after wave of hurt and humiliation and something darker underneath.
I thought I was handling this. I thought I could survive the distance, the coldness, the way he treats me like a stranger in public and a person only in the dark.
I thought I could ride out the remaining months of this contract with my dignity intact, collect my flower farm deed, and walk away with at least some part of myself still whole.
But this. This is something I can’t survive.
He built her a dressing table. He studied her routine, her preferences, her specific frustrations with getting ready in the morning. He spent months designing something perfect for her, custom compartments, adjustable lighting, every detail planned around her needs.
When was the last time he asked about my needs?
When was the last time he remembered I exist?
I think about all the nights I’ve cooked for him.
The dinners he’s eaten without comment, the meals he’s shared with Sloane instead of me, the careful efforts I’ve made to bridge the gap between us that he never seems to notice.
I think about the short ribs, four hours of work, his favorite meal, eaten by a stranger while I stood in my own kitchen wondering what I’d done wrong.
I think about the workshop, all those months ago.
The way he showed me the quilted maple, ran his fingers over the grain, talked about wood like it was the only honest thing in the world.
Maple is patient, he said. It’ll let you make mistakes.
Forgives a lot of sins, as long as you put in the work to correct them.
He was working on something then. Something he kept hidden, kept private, kept turned away from me. And tonight he stood on a stage and gave his best work to someone else.
The bathroom door opens. Heels click against tile.
I freeze, holding my breath, praying whoever it is will use the facilities and leave without noticing the woman having a breakdown in the far stall.
“Fran?” Sloane’s voice, dripping with false concern. “Are you in here? Someone said you weren’t feeling well.”
Of course. Of course it’s her.
I don’t answer. Maybe if I stay silent, she’ll give up and leave.
“I know you’re in here.” The clicking stops a few feet away. “I saw you run off. Everyone did, actually. It was quite the dramatic exit.”
Still nothing from me. Just the sound of my own breathing, too loud in the tiled space.
“Come out, Fran. This is getting embarrassing.” A pause. “For both of us.”
I wipe my face with toilet paper, take a breath that doesn’t quite steady me, and unlock the stall door.
Sloane is leaning against the sink counter, arms crossed, red dress clinging to every curve. Her expression is pure sympathy, the kind of sympathy that comes with a smile hiding underneath, sharp and satisfied.
“Oh, honey.” She tilts her head, taking in my ruined makeup and swollen eyes. “You look terrible.”
“Thanks.” I move past her to the sink, turning on the water and splashing my face. “I’ll be sure to update my skincare routine.”
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” She’s watching me in the mirror, those sharp eyes tracking every movement. “That must have been so hard, watching him up there. Talking about me like that. In front of all those people.”
“I’m fine.” The lie tastes like ash. “It was just overwhelming. A lot of stimulation.”
“Of course it was.” Her sympathy is so thick I could choke on it. “You’re not really used to these events, are you? Big crowds, important people, all that pressure to perform.” She pauses. “It’s not really your world.”
I don’t respond. I’m too busy trying to salvage my mascara, which is a lost cause but gives me something to focus on other than her face.
“I felt so bad,” she continues, warming to her theme. “Standing there while he said all those beautiful things. About me. About how well he knows me. About how long I’ve been part of his life.” Another pause. “About how carefully he studied everything I need.”
“Did you know?” I finally meet her eyes in the mirror. “About the dressing table. Did he tell you he was building it?”
Something flickers across her face, satisfaction, quickly masked. “We’ve always shared everything, Logan and I. Since we were children. He tells me things he doesn’t tell anyone else.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer you’re going to get.
” She pushes off the counter, moving closer until she’s standing right behind me.
In the mirror, we look like a twisted portrait, the wronged wife and the other woman, facing off in a bathroom that smells like expensive hand soap.
“I just wanted you to know that I understand how hard this must be for you. Being the outsider. Watching him with someone who actually knows him.”
“You don’t know anything about my marriage.”
“I know more than you think.” Her voice drops, conspiratorial. “I know about the arrangement. The families, the business deal, the convenient timing. I know why he married you, Fran. And it wasn’t because he wanted to.”
The words land like blows, but I keep my expression neutral. “If you’re trying to hurt me, you’ll have to do better than that. I’ve known from the beginning what this marriage is.”
“Have you?” She tilts her head. “Then why were you crying in a bathroom stall? If you knew what this was, if you understood your place in it, you wouldn’t be so upset about a dressing table.”
I turn to face her directly. She’s close, too close, and I can smell her perfume, something expensive and cloying that makes my head hurt.
“What do you want, Sloane?”
“I want you to understand something.” The mask of sympathy falls away, and underneath it is something harder, rawer.
“Logan and I have history. Our families have history. I always assumed we’d end up together.
Everyone assumed it.” Her voice tightens.
“But he never agreed to that. He never wanted me, not the way I wanted him. I know that now.”
“Then why are you here?” I keep my voice flat despite the ache in my chest from his public slight moments ago.
“Because I’ve seen how he watches you.” The words come out sharp, almost accusatory.
“When he thinks no one’s looking. The way his eyes follow you across a room.
He’s never looked at me like that. Not once.
” Her hands clench at her sides. “This arrangement of yours is supposed to end. But I think he’s going to walk away from everything, from his family, from all of it, and take you with him.
And I can’t let that happen.” She steps closer, her voice dropping to something venomous.
“You have three days, Fran. Three days to pack your things and disappear. If you’re still here after that, well.
Let’s just say I know how to make things very uncomfortable for people who don’t take hints. ”
The bathroom door opens again, and a woman I don’t recognize walks in. She takes one look at the two of us, standing too close, tension crackling in the air, and her steps falter.
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to-”
“It’s fine.” Sloane’s voice is suddenly bright, friendly, the concerned friend checking on an upset acquaintance. “We were just leaving. Fran wasn’t feeling well, but she’s better now. Aren’t you, Fran?”
I look at her. At the perfect smile, the calculating eyes, the absolute certainty that she’s already won.
“Much better,” I say. “Thanks for your concern.”
Sloane pats my arm, a gesture of comfort that feels like a brand. “That’s what friends are for.” She turns to the newcomer with a warm smile. “She’s lucky to have people looking out for her, don’t you think?”
Then she walks out, leaving me alone with a stranger and the shattered remains of my composure.
I take my time at the sink, washing my hands, fixing my makeup as best I can, waiting for the other woman to disappear into a stall so I don’t have to make small talk.
When the coast is clear, I slip out the door and head for the bar, where Theo is waiting with a worried expression and a fresh drink.
“You okay?”
“No.” I accept the drink. “But I will be.”
“What happened? Sloane went in there after you-”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” I take a long sip of champagne that I don’t taste. “Not here. Not now.”
Theo nods, respecting my silence the way he always does. We stand together, watching the crowd, watching Logan accept congratulations for his masterpiece, watching Sloane glide through the room like she owns it.
Five months left on this contract.
I’m starting to wonder if I’ll make it.