Chapter 2
Clayton
My wife thought I didn't love her.
The words rattled around my skull like shrapnel as the Rolls-Royce cut through downtown traffic, each mile bringing us closer to the gala and further from the conversation we should have been having.
Jennifer sat beside me, her hand still in mine, but she might as well have been on the other side of the planet.
I could feel the distance between us like a physical weight pressing down on my chest.
I know you think you do.
What the fuck was I supposed to do with that?
I stole a glance at her profile, illuminated by the passing streetlights.
The delicate slope of her nose. The fullness of her lips, painted a deep berry color that made me want to smudge it with my mouth.
The graceful curve of her neck, bare except for the diamond necklace I'd given her on our fifth anniversary.
She was so goddamn beautiful it made my teeth ache.
And she was slipping away from me. I could feel it happening, had been feeling it for months, but I didn't know how to stop it.
Every time I tried to reach for her, something else got in the way.
Work. My father. The fucking waterfront project that was bleeding money and threatening to destroy everything I'd spent fifteen years building.
I wanted to tell her. God, I wanted to open my mouth and let it all pour out, every fear and failure and sleepless night.
But every time I tried, the words got stuck somewhere in my throat, trapped behind years of conditioning that told me men didn't burden their wives with problems they couldn't solve.
My father's voice echoed in my head: A man handles his business, Clayton. He doesn't cry about it at the dinner table.
So I handled it. Alone. The way I'd always handled everything.
And my wife looked at me like I was a stranger wearing her husband's face.
The Rolls-Royce pulled up to the Hartwell Grand Hotel, all gleaming marble and golden light spilling onto the sidewalk.
A red carpet stretched from the curb to the entrance, flanked by photographers and socialites preening for the cameras.
This was my world. The world I'd been groomed for since birth, where men in expensive suits made deals over champagne and pretended they weren't all trying to slit each other's throats.
I hated every fucking second of it.
"Ready?" I asked Jennifer, squeezing her hand.
She pulled her fingers from mine and reached for her clutch. "Always."
The word was polite. Distant. A performance for an audience of one.
I got out first and offered her my hand, helping her onto the red carpet with practiced ease. Cameras flashed. People called my name. I smiled and nodded and kept my hand pressed to the small of Jennifer's back, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin silk of her dress.
Mine, something primal growled in my chest. She's mine.
But was she? Really? Or was I just holding onto the idea of her while the real woman slipped through my fingers like water?
We made our way inside, past the grand foyer with its crystal chandeliers and towering floral arrangements, into the ballroom where the city's elite had gathered to write checks and congratulate themselves on their generosity.
I spotted my father almost immediately, holding court near the bar with a group of investors who laughed too loudly at whatever he was saying.
Marcel Mayer. Seventy years old and still the most terrifying man I'd ever known.
His eyes found mine across the room, and I watched his expression shift from polished charm to cold assessment in the span of a heartbeat. He excused himself from his companions and made his way toward us, moving through the crowd like a shark through still water.
"Clayton." He clasped my shoulder with a grip that was just shy of painful. "Jennifer, you look lovely as always."
"Thank you, Marcel." Jennifer's smile was warm but careful. She'd never fully trusted my father, and I loved her for it. "How's Wendy? I haven't seen her yet."
"Around here somewhere, probably cornering the caterers about gluten-free options." He waved a dismissive hand, then turned his attention back to me with laser focus. "We need to talk. The Iverson situation is getting worse."
Iverson. The contractor who'd been skimming money from the waterfront project for months, right under my nose. The one whose incompetence was about to cost us our biggest client and tank the company's reputation.
"Not here," I said through clenched teeth.
"Yes, here." My father's voice was low but sharp enough to cut glass. "The board is getting nervous. Patterson called me this morning asking if we should consider bringing in outside management. Outside management, Clayton. Do you understand what that means?"
It meant I was failing. It meant fifteen years of work, of sacrifice, of proving myself worthy of the Mayer name, was circling the drain because I'd trusted the wrong person and been too distracted to catch it in time.
My stomach churned with acid and shame.
"I'm handling it," I said.
"Are you? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're playing dress-up at charity galas while our company burns to the ground."
"Marcel." Jennifer's voice cut through the tension like a blade. "This isn't the time or place."
My father turned to her with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "With all due respect, sweetheart, this is a family matter."
"I am family."
The words hung in the air between them, charged with a challenge that made my chest swell with something uncomfortably close to pride. Jennifer didn't back down from anyone, not even my father. It was one of the things I loved most about her.
It was also one of the things that scared me the most.
"Of course you are." My father's tone was patronizing in a way that made my fists clench at my sides. "But business discussions tend to bore the wives. Why don't you go find Wendy? I'm sure she'd love the company."
Jennifer's eyes flickered to mine, and I saw the question in them. The test. Are you going to let him dismiss me like this?
I should have said something. Should have told my father to go fuck himself, that my wife wasn't some decoration to be shuffled aside when the men needed to talk.
But the words lodged in my throat, trapped behind years of learned obedience and the gnawing fear that if I pushed back too hard, my father would finally make good on his threat to cut me out entirely.
So I said nothing.
And I watched something die in Jennifer's eyes.
"I'll go find our table," she said quietly, and walked away without looking back.
My father clapped me on the shoulder again. "Smart woman. Now, about Iverson..."
But I wasn't listening anymore. I was watching my wife disappear into the crowd, the champagne silk of her dress catching the light like liquid gold, and feeling like the biggest piece of shit on the planet.
"Clayton." My father's voice sharpened. "Focus."
I dragged my attention back to him, shoving down the guilt that was clawing at my insides. "I'm meeting with the lawyers on Monday. We'll have Iverson out by the end of the week."
"That's not good enough. The board wants a fall guy, and right now, you're the most convenient option."
Cold dread trickled down my spine. "You wouldn't."
"I would do whatever is necessary to protect this company." My father's eyes were flat and hard. "Don't make me choose between you and the legacy I've spent my entire life building. You won't like the outcome."
He walked away before I could respond, leaving me standing alone in a sea of glittering strangers with my heart pounding and my hands shaking.
I needed a drink. I needed ten drinks. I needed to find Jennifer and get on my knees and beg her to forgive me for being such a coward.
Instead, I made my way to the bar and ordered a scotch, neat.
"Rough night already?"
The voice was familiar, smooth and warm like honey poured over gravel. I turned to find Grace Shields sliding onto the barstool beside me, a glass of white wine already in her perfectly manicured hand.
Grace looked stunning, as always. Sleek dark-brown hair falling past her shoulders. Blue eyes that sparkled with intelligence and something sharper underneath. A fitted black dress that hugged her elegant figure in all the right places.
We'd been friends since college, back when I was just another trust fund kid trying to prove he was more than his father's money. Grace had seen me through failed relationships, business crises, and one spectacular bout of alcohol poisoning junior year. She knew me better than almost anyone.
Better than Jennifer, in some ways. Which was a thought I tried not to examine too closely.
"You could say that." I tossed back half my scotch in one swallow, relishing the burn. "My father just threatened to throw me to the wolves."
"Marcel does love his dramatic ultimatums." Grace shifted closer, her knee brushing mine beneath the bar. "Want to talk about it?"
I hesitated. Jennifer's face flashed through my mind, the hurt in her eyes when I'd refused to confide in her.
But Jennifer didn't understand this world, not really.
She'd grown up comfortable but not wealthy, and despite her success with her design studio, she still looked at the corporate shark tank with the naive optimism of an outsider.
Grace, though. Grace understood. She'd been navigating these waters just as long as I had, clawing her way up from nothing to become one of the most sought-after PR consultants in the city. She knew what it meant to have everything on the line. She knew the stakes.
"It's the waterfront project," I heard myself say. "Iverson's been cooking the books for months. We're hemorrhaging money, and the board is looking for someone to blame."
Grace's hand found my forearm, her touch light but grounding. "That's awful. I'm so sorry, Clayton."
"I should have caught it sooner. I was too distracted, too focused on..." I trailed off, not sure how to finish the sentence.
"On keeping everyone else happy?" Grace suggested gently. "On being the perfect son, the perfect husband, the perfect CEO? You can't be everything to everyone, Clayton. Something has to give."
I laughed bitterly. "Tell that to my father."
"Marcel is a bully who's never appreciated what he has in you." Grace's fingers tightened on my arm, and her blue eyes burned with conviction. "You're twice the businessman he ever was. You just need to stop letting him get in your head."
The words washed over me like a balm, soothing wounds I hadn't even realized were bleeding. This was what I needed. Someone who understood. Someone who didn't look at me with disappointment or confusion or that terrible, patient hurt that Jennifer wore like a second skin.
"I don't know what I'd do without you, Grace."
She smiled, and something flickered behind her eyes that I couldn't quite name. "You'll never have to find out."
Across the room, I caught a glimpse of champagne silk and dark curls. Jennifer had found our table and was chatting with someone I didn't recognize, her posture perfect, her smile firmly in place.
My wife. My beautiful, lonely wife, who I couldn't seem to reach no matter how hard I tried.
Grace followed my gaze and took a delicate sip of her wine. "Jennifer looks gorgeous tonight. That dress is stunning on her."
"I picked it out," I said automatically.
"Of course you did." Grace's smile widened slightly. "You always did have impeccable taste."
I should have gone to Jennifer then. Should have excused myself and crossed the room and taken my wife's hand and told her I was sorry for letting my father dismiss her. Sorry for being distant. Sorry for being so goddamn afraid of my own failures that I couldn't let her see them.
Instead, I ordered another scotch and let Grace tell me about her latest client crisis, her hand still warm on my arm, her voice washing away the jagged edges of my panic.
It was easier this way. Grace didn't need anything from me except my company. She didn't look at me with expectations I couldn't meet or questions I couldn't answer.
She just listened.
And I told her everything I should have been telling my wife.