Chapter 12
Adrian
The house was a mausoleum. Every surface gleamed; every book on the shelves was perfectly aligned, dusted by hands that were not mine.
But the emptiness was different now, like someone had tuned the frequency to silence.
The walk from the car to the door was longer than I remembered.
I stepped inside, expecting to hear her voice or the click of her shoes on the hardwood, but all I got was the cold echo of my own breathing.
I wandered the rooms, trying to find evidence of the life we’d built.
In the library, her favorite chair was empty, a throw blanket still draped over the arm.
In the kitchen, her coffee mug sat on the counter, lipstick mark faded but stubborn.
Upstairs, the closet held nothing but empty hangers and the faintest trace of her perfume.
I slept in our bed, alone for the first time in years, and found that I missed the sound of her restless legs more than anything else. I woke in the middle of the night, convinced I’d heard her laugh, and spent an hour sitting in the dark just listening.
The next morning, Mark and Jonathan showed up unannounced, armed with bagels and a bottle of scotch.
“You look like hell,” Jonathan said, pouring three fingers into a crystal glass before noon.
“I am hell,” I said. “What’s up?”
They traded glances, then Mark spoke. “We thought you’d want to, you know, do something. Go to the gym, hit the driving range. Fight for your marriage.”
I shook my head. “She doesn’t want to be fought for.”
Jonathan barked a laugh. “That’s not what she told my wife. You just have to show her you care, man. Go full Lloyd Dobler outside her window.”
I smiled, but there was no joy in it. “She spent years giving me what I wanted. The least I can do is give her what she’s asking for.”
Mark frowned, confused. “You’re just… letting it happen?”
“I’m not letting anything happen. I’m finally listening.”
They sat in stunned silence for a while, then started arguing about whether or not I should have “lawyered up.” I tuned them out, staring at the oil painting on the far wall—a copy of something Vivi bought at a flea market, convinced it would be worth millions someday.
After they left, I went to the study and made a list of everything I’d need to change: passwords, direct deposits, the deed to the house. Each item felt like a cut, but I did it anyway.
That night, I got an email from the board. Apparently, Celeste was “fostering confusion” about her role in the company. Some of the investors wanted clarity. I read between the lines and realized the story was getting out of control. I called an emergency meeting for the next morning.
Celeste joined by video, her image frozen at the perfect angle, jaw set and eyes bright. She wore white, her hair slicked back. She looked like a ghost of the person I used to know.
“You’re removing me,” she said, voice flat.
“It’s for the best. For both of us.”
She shrugged, unaffected. “This won’t change anything.”
“It already has.”
I ended the call, sent the press release to PR, and copied Vivi’s attorney out of courtesy.
I drafted a public statement correcting the record from the gala, taking responsibility for everything: the speech, the way I’d made Vivi feel, the breakdown.
I kept it brief and honest, and told them to run it on every platform.
The next morning, the headlines were different. No more speculation about reunions, no more breathless coverage of my love life. Instead, they ran my words: “I failed my marriage. I apologize to my wife for any pain I caused, and I support her fully as she pursues her future.”
I didn’t check social media for the reactions. I didn’t need to.
Across town, Vivi sat at her worktable, the light golden and clear. Marissa brought in the mail, dropped a stack of envelopes and flyers in front of her.
“Looks like you made the news again,” Marissa said, holding up her phone.
Vivi clicked the link, scrolled through the statement, and read it twice. The room wobbled around her. She pressed a hand to her mouth, not sure if she was about to laugh or cry.
“What did he do?” Marissa asked, half-expecting drama.
“He let me go,” Vivi said, and for some reason, it hurt more than anything else.
She finished the dress she was working on, hands steady but mind somewhere else. When the studio emptied out, she closed the blinds, lay down on the floor, and stared at the ceiling until the day faded to gray.
That night, I sat alone in the library, a glass of fucking scotch warming in my hand, and watched the city blink to life through the windows. The house was still silent, but it no longer felt like a punishment. It was just… honest.
I picked up my phone and scrolled through old photos: Vivi at the beach, hair wild and eyes alive; the girls as toddlers, covered in cake; the two of us on our wedding day, looking like we’d tricked the universe into giving us a head start.
I deleted none of them.
Instead, I put the phone down, turned off the lights, and let myself remember everything—good and bad.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t try to fix it.
I just let it be.