Chapter 29
"My wife."
He'd said it to Legal. On the phone. Like it was a fact. Like it was obvious.
My wife.
Not "the contract." Not "Katrina." Not "the girl I married for the board."
My wife.
I sat at the dining table an hour later, pushing rice around my plate with a fork. I hadn't touched the chicken. The smell was making my stomach turn. Or maybe that was the words.
My wife.
Alexandra was across from me. He wasn't eating either. He was on his phone, typing one-handed, his other hand curled around a glass of water he hadn't sipped. The sleeves were still rolled up. I could see a vein on his forearm when he moved.
I kept staring at it. Because it was easier than looking at his face. Easier than thinking about what he'd said.
"You have every right."
I didn't believe him. I wanted to. God, I wanted to. But years of being the spare, the afterthought, the "arrangement" don't go away because a man says two words into a phone.
"You need to eat," he said without looking up from his phone.
It wasn't soft. It was an order. The same way he told his assistant to clear his schedule. The same way he told Legal to trace a number.
I put a grain of rice in my mouth. Chewed. Swallowed. It tasted like paper.
"Good," he said. Still not looking at me.
The silence stretched. The only sound was the quiet tap tap of his thumb on the screen and the hum of the penthouse AC.
My phone buzzed on the table between us. We both looked at it.
Unknown Number.
My stomach dropped. My hand jerked toward it on instinct, then stopped. Because what right did I have? Because he was right there. Because—
Alexandra's hand covered mine before I could touch it. His palm was warm. Calloused. Bigger than mine by a lot.
"Don't," he said.
He picked up my phone with his other hand. Unlocked it with my passcode. He knew it. Of course he knew it.
He read the message. His jaw ticked. Once.
Then he turned the screen toward me.
Unknown Number: Did you ask him yet? Or are you too scared? He'll pick me. He always does.
The words were acid. They burned going down.
I pulled my hand out from under his. Curled it in my lap. My nails bit into my palm.
"Alexandra, I—"
"Legal is tracing it," he cut in. His voice was ice. "We'll know who sent it."
I nodded. Because what else was there to say? Thank you felt wrong. I'm sorry felt worse. Sorry for what? For existing? For being sent messages about my husband?
My wife.
"Is it her?" I whispered. I didn't mean to. The words just fell out. Small. Pathetic.
His eyes snapped to mine. Sharp. Assessing. "Is what her?"
"The number. Is it… Laura?"
Saying her name out loud made my throat close. Like I was speaking out of turn. Like I was accusing him. Like I was breaking a rule of the contract.
His expression didn't change. But something in his shoulders went tighter.
"If it is," he said slowly, "what will you do?"
The question threw me. Because I didn't know. Because I'd never thought I'd be allowed to do anything.
"I…" I started. Stopped. Twisted my hands in my lap. "I don't know. It's not my—"
"Don't say it's not your place," he said. Cutting me off again. His voice was low now, but it had an edge that made the hair on my arms stand up. "I told you last night. You are my wife. So I'm asking you. If Laura sent this, what will you do?"
I looked down at my plate. At the rice I'd mangled. At the chicken I couldn't eat.
"I don't know," I said to the table. "I don't… I don't fight people's battles, Alexandra. Especially not when I'm not even…" Real. Wanted. First choice. "Especially not when I don't know where I stand."
He was quiet for a long time. So long I risked a glance up.
He was watching me. Not angry. Not disappointed anymore. Just… studying me. Like I was a contract he couldn't read. A problem with no clear solution.
"You stand next to me," he said finally. "That's where you stand."
My breath caught. Because it sounded true when he said it. Because for one stupid second, I believed him.
Then his phone rang. He looked at the screen. "Legal."
He answered. Listened. His face didn't change, but his knuckles went white around his phone.
"Run it again. It's masked. I want the real source, not a burner." He hung up.
He stood. Grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair.
"I have to go," he said. It wasn't an apology. It was a statement.
I nodded. Stood too. Habit. "Okay."
He paused. Looked at me. Really looked. From my bare feet to my face. His eyes lingered on the shadows under my eyes. On the way I was hugging myself.
"Eat," he said. Softer this time. Almost… not quite gentle. But close. "And lock the door after me. I'll be back."
Then he was gone. The front door clicked shut. The penthouse was quiet again.
Too quiet.
I sank back into the chair. Stared at the cold food. At the cracked phone with the new text still lit up.
He'll pick me. He always does.
I pressed my palms to my eyes. Hard. Until I saw spots.
My wife. You stand next to me.
I didn't believe him. I couldn't.
But God, I wanted to.
My phone buzzed again. I didn't look. I couldn't.
Instead, I got up. Walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city was far away. The version of me who thought contracts were safe was far away.
This city was too big. This marriage was too big. And I was too small.
Always too small.
I pressed my forehead to the cold glass.
"Where do I stand, Alexandra?" I whispered to the empty room. "Where do I stand when you're not here to tell me?"
No one answered.
Of course no one answered .