Chapter 27
Simon
The drive to his mother’s house was a hollow, mechanical blur. Simon didn't remember navigating the winding roads of the affluent neighborhood or pulling into the long, circular driveway. He only registered the blinding stab of the security floodlights as he shifted his car into park.
He sat in the driver's seat for a long time, the engine ticking as it cooled. His clothes were soaked through, clinging to his shivering frame, and the right side of his face throbbed with a dull, rhythmic agony.
Finally, dragging himself out of the leather seat, he walked up the stone steps to the heavy mahogany front door.
He didn't use his key. His hands were shaking too violently to manage the lock.
Instead, he pressed the glowing doorbell and leaned heavily against the doorframe, leaving a wet handprint on the wood.
A minute later, the lock clicked. The door swung open to reveal Kathryn, wrapped in a thick cashmere robe, her reading glasses perched on the bridge of her nose.
Her sharp expression immediately morphed into pure, maternal shock.
"Simon?" Kathryn gasped, her hand flying to her chest. She took in the dripping, ruined suit, the split lip, the swelling purple bruise blooming across his cheekbone, and the absolute, dead-eyed devastation on his face. "My God, what happened? Were you in an accident?"
"No," Simon rasped, his voice barely more than a jagged whisper. He stumbled over the threshold, the warmth of the foyer hitting his freezing skin like a physical blow. "No accident."
Kathryn didn't waste time interrogating him in the doorway. She shut the door quickly, locked it, and hooked her arm under his, guiding his heavy, sluggish frame into the expansive kitchen. She pushed him gently down onto one of the barstools at the island.
"Don't move," she commanded, her voice tightening with a mix of fear and authority.
She disappeared down the hall and returned a moment later with a stack of thick white towels and a first-aid kit.
She draped a towel over his soaking shoulders, then wet a washcloth with warm water at the sink.
Standing in front of him, she gently tilted his chin up, carefully dabbing the dried blood away from his split lip.
Simon winced, squeezing his eyes shut. The tender, motherly gesture completely broke the dam he had been desperately trying to hold together. A heavy, choked sob tore from his throat.
"Talk to me, Simon," Kathryn said softly, pausing her ministrations. "Who did this to you?"
"I went to the house," Simon choked out, opening his eyes to look at his mother. The tears flowed freely now, mixing with the water dripping from his hair. "I followed her home after therapy. I just wanted to talk to her."
Kathryn’s brow furrowed, a warning edge slipping into her tone. "Simon, you know you aren't supposed to be there. We discussed giving her space."
"I know. I know," he wept, burying his face in the towel she had wrapped around him. "But when I got there... she wasn't alone, Mom."
Kathryn went perfectly still. She set the bloody washcloth down on the marble counter. "What do you mean?"
"There was a car in the driveway," Simon continued, the words scraping out of him like broken glass.
He forced himself to look at his mother, needing someone, anyone, to carry the weight of the nightmare with him.
"She was in the backseat. With a man. The guy she dated in college.
Nathaniel. I watched him... I watched her. .."
He couldn't finish the sentence. The visceral memory of Audrey’s breathless laughter and the tangled limbs in the dark car choked the air entirely out of his lungs.
"I pulled him out of the car," Simon whispered, staring blankly at the granite countertop. "I hit him. He hit me back. Audrey had to turn the garden hose on us to make it stop."
He waited for the gasp. He waited for his mother to express outrage on his behalf, to validate the feral, territorial agony tearing his chest apart.
Instead, a profound, heavy silence descended upon the kitchen.
When Simon finally looked up, Kathryn wasn't looking at him with pity. She was looking at him with a deep, tragic sorrow that terrified him far more than anger would have.
"You expected her to be a widow to a marriage you killed, Simon," Kathryn said. Her voice was incredibly gentle, but the words were a lethal, absolute truth.
"She is my wife!" Simon shouted, the pathetic, broken defense rearing its head one last time. "We were in therapy two hours ago! How can she just let another man touch her?"
"Because you taught her that vows are flexible," Kathryn replied, refusing to look away from his bruised face. "You cannot detonate a bomb in your living room and then be outraged when your wife finds shelter in another house."
"I made a mistake!" Simon pleaded, slamming his hand down on the counter. "I am trying to fix it! I gave her everything in that agreement just to get ninety days to prove I can be better."
"Simon, listen to me," Kathryn commanded, reaching across the island to grip his shaking hands.
Her sharp eyes bored directly into his soul, stripping away the very last illusion he possessed.
"The ninety days wasn't a promise of a second chance.
It was a concession. She didn't agree to it because she wants you back; she agreed to it so she can walk away with a clear conscience. "
Simon’s breath hitched. The blood drained entirely from his face.
"Audrey is an incredibly pragmatic woman," Kathryn continued softly, delivering the brutal, necessary blow.
"She is hurting, yes. But she is also surviving.
And tonight, you didn't just see her with another man.
You saw the reality that you are no longer the center of her universe.
You saw that she can rebuild her life without you. "
"Mom, I can't lose her," Simon wept, dropping his head onto the cold marble counter, completely destroyed. "I can't let him have her."
"You already lost her, Simon," Kathryn whispered, her voice breaking slightly as she watched her son shatter into a million pieces.
She reached out, gently stroking his damp hair.
"The moment you walked into that hotel room with Emily, you handed Audrey the keys to her freedom.
What she does with that freedom now is entirely out of your control. "
Simon closed his eyes, the absolute, crushing weight of his mother's words pinning him to the stool. There was no corporate strategy to fix this. There was no check he could write, no argument he could win.
He was sitting in his mother’s kitchen, battered, soaked, and entirely alone, finally forced to accept the terrifying truth: the ninety-day clock wasn't counting down to his salvation. It was counting down to his execution.