5. Fran
— ? —
Fran
I last a few more minutes beside Theo at the bar, and then I can’t.
“I’m leaving,” I tell him, setting down my half-finished champagne. “I can’t be here anymore.”
“Okay. Let me get my coat and I’ll-”
“No.” I shake my head. “I need to think. Alone. Can you just tell Logan I wasn’t feeling well? That I took a car home?”
Theo’s face is a study in conflicted loyalty, wanting to help, wanting to respect my space, probably wanting to strangle his brother for putting us all in this position. “Are you sure? I don’t like the idea of you going home by yourself after-”
“I’m sure.” I squeeze his arm, grateful for his concern even as I need to escape it. “Thank you, Theo. For everything tonight.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You stayed with me. That’s something.”
He looks like he wants to argue, but something in my expression must convince him. “Call me if you need anything. I mean it.”
“I will.”
I don’t call. I order a car on my phone, wait outside in the cold until it arrives, and spend the ride home staring out the window at streets I don’t really see.
***
The house is dark when I get there. Empty.
It’s always empty when Logan’s not home, but tonight the emptiness feels heavier, more oppressive.
I walk through the rooms without turning on lights, trailing my fingers along furniture I didn’t choose, past walls decorated with art I didn’t pick, through a life that’s never quite felt like mine.
I end up in the dining room, beside the chair where Sloane sat a month ago. Where she ate my short ribs and laughed at my husband’s jokes and looked at me with those calculating eyes that saw exactly how to hurt me.
I know more than you think, she said. I know about the arrangement. The families, the business deal, the convenient timing.
What does she know that I don’t?
I’ve never asked Logan about the specifics.
The reasons my father hinted at on the Davis side, the conditions that had to be met, I’ve accepted the broad strokes without demanding details, because asking felt like admitting I cared about something that was never supposed to matter.
Two years of marriage. The flower farm deed at the end.
That was the deal I agreed to. That was supposed to be enough.
But Sloane knows something. Something about what Logan needed from this arrangement badly enough to go through with it.
Something beyond the business alliance our fathers wanted.
She admitted he never wanted her, so why did he need to marry anyone at all?
What was he getting out of this that I don’t know about?
I pour myself a glass of wine and sit at the kitchen table in the dark, thinking about dressing tables and quilted maple and the way my husband looked at another woman tonight like she was the only person in the room.
Logan comes home just after midnight.
I hear his car in the driveway, hear the front door open and close, hear his footsteps pause when he sees the light I finally turned on in the living room. I’ve moved from the kitchen to the couch, still in my black dress, the wine glass long empty on the coffee table.
“Fran?” His voice is cautious. “Theo said you weren’t feeling well.”
“Theo is a good liar.”
He moves into the room, his outline visible in the doorway. He’s loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar, the first signs of the public Logan dissolving into whatever version exists underneath. I used to find that transition exciting. Now it just makes me tired.
“The event went well,” he says, and I almost laugh at the absurdity of it. “A lot of interest in the new line.”
“I’m sure there was.” I don’t move from my spot on the couch. “The dressing table was especially popular, I imagine.”
Silence. He stands there, neither coming closer nor backing off, just existing in the doorway like he’s not sure he has permission to enter his own living room.
“I should have told you,” he says finally.
“Told me what, exactly? That you were building a custom piece for Sloane? That you were going to name it after her? That you were going to stand on a stage in front of a roomful of people and talk about how well you know her needs?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“It was exactly like that.” I stand, because sitting feels too passive for this conversation.
“I was there, Logan. I watched it happen. I watched you describe every detail of what she needs, every preference, every frustration with her morning routine. I watched you light up when you talked about her.” My voice cracks, and I hate myself for it.
“When was the last time you lit up talking about me?”
He doesn’t answer. Of course he doesn’t.
“We’ve been married for nineteen months,” I continue.
“Nineteen months, and you’ve visited my flower farm exactly once.
You’ve eaten meals I made for you without comment.
You’ve shared dinners with her that I didn’t know about.
And tonight-” I stop, take a breath. “Tonight you stood in front of everyone we know and told them exactly how much you see her. How much attention you pay to her. How much you care about making her life easier.”
“The dressing table was a design challenge.” His voice is flat, defensive. “She mentioned some problems she was having, and I thought-”
“You thought you’d solve them. For her.” I cross my arms. “Have I ever mentioned problems to you? Have I ever told you about the things that frustrate me, the things that would make my life easier? Have you ever asked?”
“You don’t tell me things.”
The audacity of that statement takes my breath away.
“I don’t - are you serious right now? I text you when I’m making dinner.
I ask about your day when you come home.
I try to have conversations with you that you shut down with one-word answers.
I have been trying, Logan. For nineteen months, I have been trying to connect with you, and you-”
“I’m not good at this.” He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I’ve never been good at this. Talking, sharing, all the things you want from me - they don’t come naturally.”
“They come naturally with Sloane.”
He flinches. Good.
“She knows me,” he says, quieter now. “She’s known me since we were kids. I don’t have to explain myself to her, don’t have to figure out what to say. It’s just… easy.”
“Easy.” I repeat the word like it’s poison. “And I’m what? Hard?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve spent our entire marriage keeping me at arm’s length while welcoming her with open arms. It looks like you’ve been building her furniture and eating her dinners and lighting up at her jokes while I-” My voice breaks again.
“While I’ve been trying to figure out why my husband treats me like a stranger he’s contractually obligated to tolerate. ”
The word contractually lands hard. I see it hit him, see his expression close off.
“This was always a business arrangement,” he says. “We both knew that going in.”
“Right.” I nod, my throat tight. “A business arrangement. So why does it hurt so much when you treat it like one?”
He doesn’t have an answer for that. Neither do I.
We stand there in the dim living room, two people who share a bed and a name and nothing else, and I think about all the ways this could have been different.
If he’d tried. If I’d pushed harder. If we’d ever once had a conversation about what we wanted from this marriage instead of just accepting the shape other people cut out for us.
“Sloane found me,” I say, and my voice is steadier now. “In the bathroom. After I left.”
Something shifts in his expression. “What did she say?”
“She told me she knows about the arrangement. The families, the timing. She admitted you never wanted her, that you never agreed to be with her.” I watch his face carefully, looking for a reaction.
“But she also made it clear you needed something from this marriage. Something I don’t know about.
Something that made you go through with it anyway. ”
“She doesn’t know anything.”
“She knows something.” I take a step closer. “She knows enough to be confident that I’m not going to last. She knows enough to tell me that I don’t belong in your world, that I’m playing dress-up in a life that was never meant for me.” I pause. “What does she know, Logan?”
His jaw tightens. “Family business. Nothing that concerns you.”
“I’m your wife.”
“You’re-” He stops. Takes a breath. “It’s complicated.”
“Then uncomplicate it. Tell me what’s going on. Tell me why she’s so confident that she’s going to win.”
For a moment, I think he might actually do it. I see the war playing out on his face, the part of him that wants to explain, to share, to let me in. And the part that’s been trained to keep his cards close, to protect his secrets, to trust no one with the things that matter most.
The second part wins.
“There’s nothing to tell,” he says, and his voice is closed off again, the night man retreating behind the walls of the day man. “Sloane is an old friend. The dressing table was a design project. Whatever she said to you in that bathroom, she was just trying to get under your skin.”
“She succeeded.”
“Then don’t let her.” He says it like it’s simple. Like I can just decide not to be hurt by watching my husband dedicate his finest work to another woman. “You’re stronger than this, Fran. You don’t need to-”
“Don’t tell me what I need.” The anger is back, hot and sharp. “Don’t you dare stand there and tell me how to feel after what you did tonight. You humiliated me. In front of everyone. And now you’re telling me to just… get over it?”
“That’s not what I-”
“Go to your workshop.” I turn away from him, heading for the stairs. “Go build something for someone who actually matters to you. That’s what you’re good at, right? Wood and design and solving other people’s problems?”
“Fran-”
“I’m done talking tonight.” I pause at the bottom of the stairs.
I want to tell him about Sloane’s threats.
About the three days. About the fear in her eyes when she talked about how he watches me, how she thinks he might actually leave his family when our arrangement ends.
But looking at him now, closed off, defensive, unwilling to meet me halfway, I realize he wouldn’t believe me.
He’d think I was exaggerating. Being dramatic. Letting Sloane get under my skin.
He’d take her side without even meaning to.
“Goodnight, Logan.”
I climb the stairs without looking back. When I reach our bedroom, I close the door behind me and turn the key in the old lock. Sometimes a woman needs a boundary she can control.
Tonight, I need all the boundaries I can get.
I stand in the dark room, still in my black dress, and I think about Sloane’s smile in that bathroom mirror. About the way she said it’s not really your world like it was already decided. About the confidence in her voice when she told me I had three days.
Three days to do what? Leave? Fight back? Figure out what she knows that I don’t?
I don’t have answers. I just have the weight of a locked door between me and my husband, and the growing certainty that this marriage is falling apart in ways I never expected.
I change out of my dress and into pajamas, go through the motions of washing my face and brushing my teeth, and climb into bed knowing I won’t sleep.
The house is quiet. I don’t hear Logan come upstairs, don’t hear the workshop door open, don’t hear anything except my own breathing and the relentless loop of thoughts I can’t escape.
The Sloane. He named it after her. He built her something beautiful and called it by her name, and then he stood under the lights and explained exactly how well he knows her.
What does he know about me?
He knows I wake up early. He knows I smell like fertilizer when I come home from the farm and that I shower before dinner. He knows I make his favorite short ribs when I’m trying too hard and that I lock the bedroom door when I need space.
Does he know that I’m scared of thunderstorms?
That I cry at commercials with dogs in them?
That I’ve been dreaming about the cottage I want to build at the edge of my flower farm, a little place of my own, just one room and a porch, somewhere I can escape when the main house feels too big and empty?
Does he know that I’m in love with him?
I lie in the dark and trace patterns on the ceiling and try to figure out what I’m supposed to do now. She didn’t specify the threat, just the timeline, and somehow that’s worse. The unknown is always worse.
I could leave. That’s what she wants, for me to pack my things and walk away, forfeit whatever claim I have on Logan and his family and this life I never asked for.
I could go back to my flower farm, live in the original farmhouse I’ve been slowly restoring, just one bedroom and a kitchen, but it’s mine.
I could wait out the remaining months of the contract and hope that whatever Sloane has planned doesn’t follow me there.
But leaving feels like surrender. And I’ve never been good at surrender.
I could fight. Stay here, call Sloane’s bluff, refuse to be intimidated by a woman who thinks she can threaten me into submission.
I could tell Logan everything, the bathroom confrontation, the three days, the way she looked at me like I was already gone.
I could demand answers about the arrangement, the family business, whatever secrets are hiding beneath the surface of this marriage.
But I tried to talk to him tonight. I tried to reach him, to make him see what’s happening, and he shut me out. He defended Sloane. He told me I was stronger than this, like my pain was a character flaw instead of a reasonable response to public humiliation.
I already made that call at the bottom of the stairs, and nothing since has changed my mind.
He won’t believe me.
Or worse, he’ll believe me, and he won’t care.
The lock on my bedroom door feels inadequate suddenly.
It’s a keyed lock, old-fashioned and solid, but keys can be copied.
Keys can be stolen. And I don’t know who else might have one.
I think about Sloane, about the way she moves through spaces like she owns them, about the key Logan might have given her without thinking.
I wondered a month ago whether she had a key to this house. Tonight the question doesn’t feel paranoid.
The thought makes my skin crawl. The idea that she could walk in whenever she wants, that the doors I close might not stay closed-
I need to think about this in the morning. I need sleep and perspective and probably a lot more wine. But for now, I’m alone in a locked room in a house that doesn’t feel like mine, married to a man who doesn’t see me, targeted by a woman who wants me gone.
Three days.
I don’t know what comes at the end of them, but I know it won’t be good.
I curl up on my own half of the bed and close my eyes.
Tomorrow I’ll figure out what to do. Tomorrow I’ll make a plan.
Tonight, I’ll just try to survive.