The Fifth Time My Husband Stayed Out All Night, I Didn’t Call Him, Cry, Or Ask Where He Was. I Was Already Done Waiting For Him To Come Home.
Chapter 4
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That last one had been particularly clever.
He had made me feel ashamed for noticing.
The first time I met Jasmine Cole, I actually liked her.
She was poised, intelligent, ambitious.
She remembered names.
She spoke without filler words.
She could dismantle a bad proposal in three sentences without raising her voice.
At Prescott Global’s holiday gala two years earlier, I watched her command a conversation with four senior directors.
Afterward, I told Aaron, “She’s impressive.”
He smiled.
“Best hire I’ve made.”
I should have remembered the way he said it.
Not proud.
Possessive.
But people in love are skilled at editing evidence.
We keep the details that support the life we want and discard the ones that threaten it.
I did that longer than I care to admit.
At seven, my parents arrived at the house.
My father hugged me without speaking.
Then he looked around the foyer.
“Where is he?”
“Not here.”
“Good.”
My mother gave him a warning glance.
“What?”
“He asked.”
My mother touched my arm.
“You should eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“That isn’t the question.”
Some things never changed.
By eight, we were packing my personal belongings.
The house suddenly looked different.
I had chosen almost everything inside it.
The cream sofas.
The antique console.
The painting above the fireplace.
The blue-and-white china in the breakfast room.
Yet none of it felt like mine.
That realization was worse than losing it.
I had spent three years decorating a life I no longer wanted.
At 8:40, the gate buzzed.
My father headed toward the door.
“No.”
He turned.
“Claire.”
“I’ll handle it.”
I checked the camera.
Not Aaron.
His mother.
Eleanor Prescott stood outside in a camel coat, holding her handbag against her chest.
Of course.
Aaron had sent the diplomat.
I let her in.
She entered the living room and stopped when she saw boxes.
“You’re actually leaving.”
“Yes.”
“Claire, may we speak privately?”
“My parents know what happened.”
Her mouth tightened slightly.
She had always been elegant in that intimidating New England way—silver-blond hair, quiet jewelry, perfect posture.
Eleanor never needed to raise her voice.
She could communicate disapproval with one breath.
My mother looked at me.
I nodded.
My parents went upstairs.
Eleanor sat.
I remained standing.
“You hurt him badly this morning,” she said.
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was so perfectly Prescott.
Aaron cheated.
I embarrassed him.
Therefore my behavior required discussion.
“What did Aaron tell you?”
“That your marriage has been under strain.”
“Interesting.”
“That he and Jasmine have a close professional relationship which you misinterpreted.”
“Of course.”
“Claire, I’m not saying he handled everything well.”
“That’s generous.”
She sighed.
“You posted an accusation in front of his entire company.”
“I posted a thank-you.”
Her eyes sharpened.
“You are enjoying this.”
“No.”
The answer surprised even me.
“I’m really not.”
I sat across from her.
“That’s what you don’t understand. If I wanted to hurt Aaron, I would have done this a year ago. I stayed because I wanted my marriage.”
Eleanor looked away.
For a moment, her expression changed.
Not guilt exactly.
Recognition.
And suddenly I knew.
“You knew.”
Her eyes returned to mine.
“Claire—”
“You knew there was something between them.”
“I knew there were rumors.”
“How long?”
“Rumors are not facts.”
“How long?”
She stayed silent.
That was answer enough.
I felt the pain low in my chest.
Not sharp.
Heavy.
“You let me sit beside you at Christmas.”
“Claire.”
“You watched me talk about Aaron’s travel schedule. You watched me defend him.”
“I was trying not to interfere in my son’s marriage.”
“No. You were protecting him from consequences.”
“That is unfair.”
“Is it?”
Her face hardened.
“Marriage requires discretion.”
I stared at her.
“And apparently so does adultery.”
She stood.
“This situation can still be handled privately.”
“No.”
“Think about what a divorce like this will become.”
“I have.”
“Reporters are already calling.”
“I know.”
“The board is concerned.”
“They should be.”
“Prescott Global employs thousands of people. Aaron has responsibilities beyond himself.”
“So did he.”
Her jaw tightened.
Then she changed tactics.
“What do you want?”
The question was quiet.
Cold.
Businesslike.
I understood immediately.
Money.
She thought I was creating public pressure for a better settlement.
I stood too.
“I want a divorce.”
“Yes, but financially.”
“I submitted a proposal this morning.”
“Aaron’s attorney says it was surprisingly modest.”
“Because I don’t want what isn’t mine.”
Eleanor studied my face as though searching for a hidden agenda.
She had never understood people who acted without one.
“If money isn’t the goal, why humiliate him publicly?”
My answer came without effort.
“Because he humiliated me publicly for years.”
That silenced her.
I walked her to the door.
Before leaving, she turned.
“Jasmine is not what you think.”
May you like
I held her gaze.
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