Chapter 2
PAIGE
The walnut floors were dark, almost black under the recessed LED lighting that ran in seamless strips along the white ceiling.
Everything in this kitchen was designed to hide its true purpose.
The refrigerator was paneled in matching dark wood, the cooktop was a flat sheet of black glass, and the sink was a hidden basin of matte composite stone.
It was a space meant for show, a kitchen where no one actually cooked, a pristine gallery of high-end domesticity that felt entirely detached from the messy reality of human life.
I had kicked off my heels in the hallway, and the coldness of the floorboards seeped straight into my bare feet.
My emerald silk dress felt heavy now, constricting my lungs as I stood near the edge of the marble island.
The fabric smelled faintly of the white lilies from the lobby arrangements, a scent that had begun to make my stomach turn.
Across from me, Malcolm was already entrenched behind his tablet.
The white silk of his tuxedo shirt was bright under the overhead lights, his black bow tie unknotted and hanging loosely around his neck like a broken collar.
His jacket was draped over the back of a barstool, a perfect specimen of tailored black that he had discarded without a second thought the moment we crossed the threshold.
His long, blunt fingers swiped across the glass screen with practiced, efficient speed, his face illuminated by the pale blue glare of spreadsheets and structural metrics.
“Malcolm, look at me,” I said, my voice sounding thin and exhausted in the vast, open space of the penthouse. “Please.”
He did not look up immediately. He let out a low, mechanical murmur from the back of his throat, his thumb scrolling through another line of data. “Just checking the final commitments from the West Wing group, Paige. Give me a second.”
“We are supposed to be having a conversation,” I said, stepping closer to the island, my knuckles pressing against the cold quartz surface.
“We haven’t spoken a real word to each other in weeks, and tonight you left me standing alone in a crowd of three hundred people while you paraded around with your curator. I need you to put the tablet down.”
“I am listening,” he replied, his tone perfectly even, his eyes still fixed on the screen.
“You said I left you by the pillar. I explained why that was necessary. Cobb and his associates needed to see a unified presentation of the tower’s lifestyle branding.
It was a twenty-million-dollar integration, Paige.
I couldn’t exactly stop the meeting to reintroduce my wife to people she already met last year. ”
“It isn’t just about the gala, Malcolm,” I said, the words catching in my throat, hot and heavy with a months-old grief.
“It is about us. Look at this room. Look at how we live. You are slipping away into these buildings, into these numbers, and there is nothing left of you when you come home. We are like two strangers sharing a lease on a monument.”
He finally paused, his thumb hovering over the glass screen.
He closed his eyes for a short second, a deep line appearing between his dark brows, but when he opened them, he still did not look at me.
He looked at the walnut cabinetry behind me.
“I am building a legacy, Paige. This is the crunch period. Once the tower is fully leased and the public spaces are stabilized, things will return to normal. You knew what my schedule would look like when I took on the development side of the firm.”
“Normal?” I echoed, a bitter, hollow laugh escaping my lips.
“We haven’t had a normal dinner in six months.
Even our weekends are populated by project managers and city council members.
I am starving for a single moment where you are entirely present, where you are looking at me instead of a blueprint. ”
“Fine,” he muttered, his voice flat as he swiped to another document, his automated response signaling that he had completely checked out of the emotional weight of the conversation.
“We will schedule something after the opening week concludes. Tomorrow is packed, but I will have my assistant look at the following weekend.”
The clinical detachment of his response felt like a physical door slamming in my face.
He physically sat three feet away from me, the warmth of his body reachable across the white stone, but his soul was locked behind a firewall of corporate logic.
He was managing me, treating my heartache like a minor scheduling conflict that could be resolved with an executive memo.
Before I could speak, before I could scream at him to look at the wreckage he was making of our marriage, the sharp, electronic chime of the private elevator echoed through the penthouse.
I froze, my eyes snapping toward the dark wood doors at the end of the entry hall. It was nearly two in the morning. No one had access to our private lift without a security bypass from the lobby desk or an executive keycard.
The doors slid open with a smooth, expensive whisper.
Cynthia stepped out into our private lobby, her liquid silver gown catching the dim accent lights of the hallway.
She looked entirely untouched by the late hour, her blonde hair still perfectly pinned into its elegant twist, her silver heels clicking a confident, unhurried rhythm against the hardwood floor.
But she was not alone. Walking a half-step behind her was Jared Davies, the silver-haired titan of institutional finance whose venture capital fund was the primary target for Malcolm’s next skyscraper project.
“Malcolm, darling, I hope you don’t mind the intrusion,” Cynthia said, her voice smooth as poured cream as she commanded the room without a single beat of hesitation.
She did not look at me at all, her eyes locking instantly onto Malcolm as she dropped a heavy leather portfolio onto our kitchen island.
“Jared and I were just reviewing the site plans over a late drink down at the hotel, and a fascinating dilemma came up regarding the penthouse levels. We realized we absolutely needed to see the custom light profiles in a completed residential application to understand how the terrace sculpture will render from the street.”
Jared Davies offered a polite, somewhat calculated nod, his sharp eyes scanning the minimalist expanse of our home with the discerning gaze of a man who measured luxury in yield per square foot.
“Apologies for the midnight hour, Klein, but Cynthia convinced me that your personal residence was the only place to truly evaluate the structural uplighting matrix before the morning board meeting.”
Malcolm was on his feet before Jared could finish the sentence.
The exhaustion that had lined his face seconds ago vanished, replaced instantly by the rigid, hyper-focused energy of the billionaire developer.
“It is no intrusion at all, Jared. In fact, the light profiles here are programmed on the exact same automated lux-cycle we are implementing in the new tower. Come out to the terrace, let me show you how the glass handles the low-angle refraction.”
I stood there, my bare feet freezing against the walnut planks, watching the three of them move toward the floor-to-ceiling glass doors that opened to the Elliott Bay terrace.
Cynthia stepped into alignment beside Malcolm, her silver shoulder brushing his sleeve as she pointed toward the sky, her voice instantly weaving complex design terminology into the conversation.
She had bypassed the security of our home, brought a multi-million-dollar investor into our kitchen, and rewritten the narrative of our night without asking for my permission, and my husband had welcomed it without a second thought.
“Paige, sweetie,” Cynthia called out over her silver shoulder, her tone dripping with that practiced, high-society warmth as they walked back inside a few minutes later.
“We didn’t really eat at the gala. Would you mind terribly setting out some plates for us while Malcolm walks Jared through the terrace floor plans? ”
The request was delivered like a command to a domestic staff member, wrapped in a sweet, condescending smile that made my blood boil.
I looked at Malcolm, waiting for him to step in, waiting for him to say that his wife was not a waitress for his impromptu midnight business meetings.
But he was already spreading a roll of architectural vellum across the dining table, his head bowed with Jared’s over the structural lines.
“Sure,” I said, hating the word as it left my mouth.
I walked into the staging pantry, my hands shaking as I pulled down the fine porcelain plates and silver cutlery.
I arranged what I could of the finger foods we kept on hand for hosting duties, the smoked salmon, the imported cheeses, and the artisan crackers onto a serving tray, every movement feeling like a humiliation.
I had a degree in arts administration. I ran an organization that served hundreds of people.
Yet in my own home, under the roof my husband had built, I was being reduced to an invisible hostess, a background character in the story of Malcolm’s success.
When I brought the tray to the minimalist walnut dining table, Cynthia had already seated herself to Malcolm’s right, her leather portfolio spread open across the wood, her silver gown reflecting the sharp overhead spotlights.
Jared sat opposite them, a glass of Malcolm’s private reserve scotch already in his hand.