Chapter 17
PAIGE
Arelentless sheet of freezing rain blew sideways off Elliott Bay, hammering downtown Seattle with a punishing winter squall.
Water soaked straight through the heavy wool of my coat, turning the fabric into a lead weight against my shoulders as I forced my way up the steep, slick sidewalks.
The morning commute was a chaotic crush of dark umbrellas and hurried boots stomping through overflowing gutters.
The damp air carried the heavy scent of wet concrete, idling bus exhaust, and the bitter bite of dark roast from the corner cafes, but I barely registered the sensory assault.
My boots moved across the familiar crosswalks on pure muscle memory, while my consciousness remained stranded in the dark, freezing kitchen of Malcolm’s penthouse.
I shifted the heavy canvas tote bag higher onto my shoulder, wincing as the thick strap dug a painful trench into my collarbone.
It was loaded with the unglamorous necessities of technical theater survival: dense rolls of matte-black gaffer tape, a heavy cardboard box of specialized steel rigging carabiners, and replacement vintage brass closures for the wardrobe department.
This was the tedious logistical work I normally delegated to a production assistant.
This morning, however, I had aggressively volunteered for the supply run.
I desperately needed the freezing wind against my face.
I needed the physical distraction of walking from hardware stores to fabric suppliers to process the suffocating weight of my husband’s actions.
I expect absolutely nothing from you.
His voice—hoarse, broken, stripped of every ounce of the polished corporate armor he had worn for the last half-decade—kept looping in my head on an endless, torturous cycle.
Every time I blinked against the driving rain, I saw him slouched over that cold marble island.
I saw the stiff white cotton tape binding his bleeding, ruined palms. I saw the violent, dark bruising creeping up his forearms.
He had abandoned the safety of his seventy-second-floor glass tower to descend into the dirt. He had bled for my stage in total silence, fully prepared to walk away and let me divorce him without asking for a single word of credit or forgiveness.
I reached up with a cold, trembling hand, pressing my wet fingertips against my lower lip.
The delicate skin there still felt flushed and tender from the starving, desperate impact of his mouth.
The memory of that kiss was a live wire sparking directly in my chest. I could still feel the bruising, possessive grip of his arms locking around my waist, pulling me flush against his chest like I was the only solid object left in his collapsing world.
The sheer desperation of the way he had held me, surrendering every defense the second my lips touched his, sent a terrifying thrill straight down my spine.
I had carefully constructed a heavy, impenetrable wall of righteous anger to survive his neglect.
Maintaining fury against a cold, untouchable corporate titan who treated our marriage like a secondary asset on a balance sheet was a matter of basic emotional survival.
Walking away from a man who prioritized the Seattle skyline over his own wife had kept my heart from breaking completely.
Holding onto that defensive anger against a man quietly destroying his own hands in the shadows just to keep my world from falling apart was entirely impossible.
I stopped at the corner of Fourth Avenue, waiting for the pedestrian light to change.
Across the busy intersection stood a towering, sixty-story high-rise composed of sharp geometric glass and dark steel.
It was one of Malcolm’s early projects. I remembered the grueling nights he had spent hunched over his drafting table in our old apartment, his fingers stained with graphite as he relentlessly perfected the load-bearing calculations for that specific facade.
He had poured his life into building monuments that would outlast us both.
The sheer scale of his ambition was baked into the very concrete of the city.
Trying to reconcile the man who had built that towering glass monolith with the man who had willingly hauled hundred-pound costume trunks through a flooded alleyway made my head spin.
Needing a massive dose of caffeine to push through the heavy brain fog of sleep deprivation, I ducked under the dark green awning of a high-end espresso bar situated right on the edge of the financial district.
Pushing through the heavy glass doors, I was instantly hit by a wall of dry heat and the loud, overlapping noise of the morning rush.
The interior of the shop was a sleek, modern expanse of polished concrete floors, warm brass fixtures, and the loud, rhythmic hissing of commercial espresso machines.
The morning crowd was thick, composed almost exclusively of sharp-suited corporate executives, wealth managers, and tech developers shouting over the ambient noise to be heard by their colleagues.
For five years, this had been my regular environment.
I used to navigate these rooms in designer coats and expensive leather boots, playing the role of the perfect, supportive architectural wife.
Now, I felt distinctly out of place in my damp, oversized coat and faded denim, carrying a heavy canvas bag full of stage hardware.
I kept my head down, shaking the water from my hair, and joined the back of the long queue.
I was staring blankly at the glass pastry case, trying to steady the frantic, uneven rhythm of my pulse, when a loud, metallic clatter abruptly cut through the low roar of the room.
“Damn it,” a distinctly familiar male voice muttered.
I turned my head toward the noise. A man standing near the wooden cream station had dropped a heavy black architectural blueprint tube.
It hit the floor and went rolling across the polished concrete.
He lunged forward and smoothly scooped it up, effortlessly pinning it under his arm while catching his ringing mobile phone with his other hand before it could slide off the counter.
He secured his heavy leather briefcase with his foot and let out a long, slow exhale.
I froze, the breath catching sharply in my throat.
It was Gavin. Malcolm’s right-hand man, his oldest friend, and the ruthless co-managing partner of the most powerful architectural development firm in the Pacific Northwest.
Since I married Malcolm, Gavin had been a constant fixture in our lives.
He was the quintessential corporate operator—immaculate, wearing perfectly tailored Tom Ford suits, equipped with a smooth, unflappable charm that could disarm angry city councilmen and rival developers alike.
He was the polished, highly diplomatic shield to Malcolm’s relentless, driving sword.
The man standing at the cream station was a frayed, exhausted echo of that executive.
Gavin’s expensive charcoal suit jacket was deeply wrinkled across the shoulders.
His silk tie was loosened and pulled away from his collar.
The top button of his dress shirt was undone, and faint, dark shadows of fatigue rested beneath his eyes.
He looked like a man who had been pulling back-to-back all-nighters, carrying a massive workload on his shoulders.
Even so, his posture was straight. He looked bone-tired, yet entirely capable of bearing the weight.
He finally managed to secure the black blueprint tube inside the flap of his briefcase. He turned around to face the main room, sliding his phone into his pocket.
And then, his eyes locked directly onto mine.
Gavin stopped in his tracks. He didn’t flinch or look away. He just stood there in the middle of the bustling shop, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his tired face.
I braced myself for the usual, uncomfortable interaction, expecting the cool, calculating corporate nod or the careful, awkward maneuvering of a man looking at the estranged wife of his best friend.
Bypassing the stiff pleasantries entirely, Gavin picked up his briefcase, walked away from the cream station, and navigated directly through the crowd toward me. He stopped less than two feet away, ignoring the businessmen pressing past us in the queue.
“Paige,” Gavin said, his voice warm and unguarded. He looked at me with a mixture of deep, weary exhaustion and a profound, quiet relief. “I was really hoping I’d run into you eventually. Though I didn’t expect it to be while getting coffee.”
I gripped the handles of my canvas tote bag tighter, my defensive instincts automatically flaring to life despite his friendly demeanor. “Hello, Gavin. You look exhausted.”
Gavin let out a short, rough laugh, reaching up to rub the back of his neck.
“That is the polite way of saying I look like hell. You’re not wrong.
I’m currently shouldering the workload of two managing partners, fielding calls from international banks at three in the morning, and trying to keep the legal department from having a collective aneurysm.
” He dropped his hand, his smile softening into something incredibly sincere.
“But honestly, Paige? It is the absolute best overtime I have ever put in.”
My brow furrowed, a knot of deep confusion forming in my chest. “I don’t understand. Why are you doing the jobs of two partners? Where is Malcolm?”
“Malcolm is exactly where he needs to be,” Gavin said flatly, the total absence of judgment in his voice catching me off guard. “He is fixing the only thing he actually cares about. I’m temporarily holding the fort so he doesn’t have to look over his shoulder while he does it.”
“Gavin, I don’t know what he told you, but we are separated,” I said quickly, the words feeling thin and hollow on my tongue after the events of the previous night. “I don’t control his corporate schedule. If he’s skipping meetings?—“