Chapter 10 #2
The moment his eyes lock onto mine, something in him snaps.
The tension in his shoulders, that rigid, defensive stance he’s been holding, simply gives way.
He sags against the doorframe, his chest heaving under that ruined white shirt.
The bloodshot, glassy look in his eyes clears for a second, replaced by a desperate, hungry relief.
It’s a look that used to make me feel like the center of the universe. Now, it makes me feel like a target.
“Margot,” he breathes. My name is a rasp, a prayer that’s been chewed up and spat out.
Wren stays planted firmly between us. “She doesn’t want to hear it, Ross. Look at her. Look at what you’ve done. You’ve turned her into a zombie in two days. You’ve done enough damage. Take your suits and excuses, and find a bridge to design somewhere else.”
Ross’s hands are twitching. I watch them clench and unclench at his sides.
Meanwhile, I move closer, closing the distance until I’m standing a foot behind Wren.
I can smell him now. He smells like the office, stale toner and burnt espresso, but underneath that is the sour, metallic scent of a man who has forgotten how to care for his own skin. He smells like neglect. Body odor.
“Margot, please,” he says, ignoring Wren entirely. I am the only thing in his line of sight. “I didn’t think… I didn’t know if you’d stay here. I went to your mother’s first. I went to the gallery. I’ve been driving in circles, trying to give you some space.”
Ha. As if that’s the reason he missed my calls. For my own protect. “Space.”
“You shouldn’t have come here,” I say. My voice is steadier than I feel.
It sounds like someone else speaking, a woman who hasn’t spent the day crying.
“You should have stayed at your drafting table. That’s where you live, isn’t it?
Maybe you can Doordash lamb directly to your desk. Cut me out of the equation completely.”
“I quit,” he says.
Wren lets out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Oh, brilliant. The Emperor’s golden boy threw a tantrum. Is that supposed to fix the fact that you brought another woman’s name into your wife’s bed? Is unemployment supposed to make you faithful?”
“I resigned,” Ross repeats, his voice growing stronger, a new, jagged edge of anger cutting through the desperation. He glances at Wren, then back to me. “I walked out, leaving the Dubai project on the desk. I left Tabitha in the office, with Arthur, the partnership, and the whole goddamn firm.”
A cold ripple of shocks shoots through me.
Ross Calder doesn’t resign.
Ross Calder doesn’t walk away from the biggest project of his career. Architecture isn’t his job; it’s his skeleton. Without it, I assumed he’d collapse into a pile of wrinkled suits.
“You did what?” I whisper.
“I destroyed it,” he says, taking a small, tentative step forward.
Wren immediately moves to block him, her hand going to the doorframe to bar the path.
“I realized Chan was right, because I don’t want the firm.
I don’t want the reputation. I want the man I was before I forgot how to look at you. But most importantly, I want you.”
Memories of Valentine’s night flash through my mind with strobe-light intensity: the congealed lamb, the dying candles, the weight of him on top of me, the friction of the silk, and then, the name. The name that turned my bedroom into a crime scene.
Goodnight, Tabitha.
The name is a ghost in the hallway, standing right there between the three of us.
How could I forget?
“You can’t quit your way out of this, Ross,” I tell him. I wrap my arms around myself, pulling the borrowed robe tighter. The microfiber feels like sandpaper now. “You let her take up so much space in your head, there was no room left for me.”
“I know,” he gasps. “I know I’m a wreck. I know I’m the villain in this version of the story. But I’m here. I’m finally, actually here, and I have nothing left but you. I have no job. I have no office. I have nothing to hide.”
Wren turns her head slightly, her profile sharp against the hallway light. There’s skepticism in the set of her jaw. She wants me to tell him to go. She wants me to let her finish the call to the police and watch them drag this broken architect out of her entryway.
I stare at Ross, the gray skin, the bloodshot eyes, the absolute destruction of the man I loved.
I take a deep breath.
“Let him talk, Wren,” I say softly.
She whips around to look at me, eyes wide with betrayal. “Margot, you can’t be serious. Look at him. He’s doing the same thing he always does, making his crisis your problem.”
“I know,” I say. And I do. I see the manipulation, whether conscious or not. I see the drama of his behavior. But I’m also gazing at the man who once redesigned my kitchen to make me smile. “Five minutes. Let him have his five minutes, and then he leaves. I need to hear the words.”
Wren stares at me for a long, agonizing beat. I can feel her protective energy vibrating through her arm, a physical rejection of the man standing in her doorway. Then, slowly, she lets out a sharp, hissing sound between her teeth and steps aside.
She doesn’t go far. She retreats, but her eyes never leave him. Staying in the periphery, she’s ready to spring at the first sign of a breach.
The doorway is now open. The space between us is clear.
Ross stands there, his silhouette framed by the porch light. He looks smaller than he did a minute ago. More fragile. Finally, he steps across the threshold.
The room feels tighter than ever. The smell of him, the office, the failure, is overwhelming.
“Five minutes,” I say, and I don’t move an inch to welcome him. “The clock is running.”
“Margot,” he breathes.
I hate myself for the way my heart still stutters when he says my name.