Chapter 3 - The Weight of Silence"I'm not going back," I said, stepping forward—slowly this time, ensuring she saw every movement I made. "Not until you tell me what you need me to hear."
Claire looked at me for a long, agonizing moment, her dark eyes searching my face as though looking for the man she had married six years ago. Slowly, she gestured toward the door behind her. "It's freezing out here. Come inside. But check your weapons, your titles, and your demands at the threshold, Dominic. Inside this cabin, you don't own anything."
The interior of the cabin smelled of aged cedar, woodsmoke, and dust. It was exactly as we had left it on our honeymoon. The same stone fireplace, the same faded quilt draped over the small sofa, and the same small wooden table where we had eaten toasted bread by candlelight while the storm raged outside.
Claire set her mug down on the kitchen counter and turned to face me, leaning back against the wood. She crossed her arms defensively, though her hands were steady.
"When did you realize?" I asked quietly, standing near the doorway because I didn't dare intrude further into her space. "When did you decide to leave?"
"Does it matter?" she asked, her voice dropping into a quiet, rhythmic cadence.
"It matters to me," I insisted. "When Patricia told me you knew about Vanessa... she said last night wasn't why you left, but the night you allowed me to realize you were already gone. I need to understand how I missed it, Claire. How could I live with you every day and be so completely blind?"
Claire pushed off the counter and walked slowly toward the center of the room, stopping a few feet away. "Because you never really looked at me, Dominic. You looked around me. You saw the woman standing beside you at the charity galas who smiled correctly, wore the right jewelry, and never embarrassed you in front of investors. You saw the ornament, but you never saw the person."
She held up a hand before I could interrupt. "Do you remember our third anniversary? You booked the entire rooftop terrace of the St. Regis. There was a string quartet, caviar, champagne flown in from France. It cost more than most people make in a year. And do you remember what I did the next morning?"
I searched my memory frantically, the glossy images of high-society events blurring together in my mind. "We... we had breakfast brought up. You wore that emerald dress."
"I cried in the bathroom for twenty minutes," Claire said, her voice cracking slightly for the first time. "Not because I wasn't grateful for the dress or the terrace, but because two days before, my mother had been admitted to the hospital for heart surgery, and I couldn't even tell you about it. You were too busy preparing for the Tokyo acquisitions meeting. When I finally whispered it to you over dinner, you patted my hand, told your secretary to send flowers, and went right back to discussing foreign currency exchange rates."
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The words struck me like a physical blow, driving the air straight out of my lungs. I staggered back a step, gripping the back of a wooden chair for support. "Claire... I didn't know. You never told me she—"
"I didn't tell you because I had already learned that my reality was an inconvenience to your schedule," she interrupted, tears finally spilling over her lashes, though she didn't wipe them away. "That is why I left, Dominic. Not because of Vanessa. Vanessa was just a symptom. I left because being alone in an empty house in Manhattan was infinitely less lonely than sitting across a dinner table from a husband who was already miles away."
