Adrian's POV(Two hours earlier)
"Mr. Hartwell, you're bleeding."
I looked down at my hand. Blood dripped from my knuckles onto the conference table. I'd been gripping my pen so hard it snapped, and I hadn't even noticed the plastic cutting into my skin.
"Meeting's over," I said, standing up. The board members scrambled to leave. They always did when I used that voice—the one that meant don't argue, just obey.
Marcus stayed behind, watching me with those judging eyes of his. My best friend and my biggest pain in the neck.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Fine." I grabbed a napkin and wrapped my bleeding hand. "Just tired."
"You've been 'just tired' for five years, Adrian." Marcus leaned against the table. "When's the last time you slept?"
I checked my watch. Almost midnight. I'd been at the office for eighteen hours straight. "I'll sleep when the Henderson deal closes."
"That's what you said about the Morrison deal. And the Patterson deal before that." Marcus shook his head. "You're going to work yourself to death."
"Better than the alternative."
The words slipped out before I could stop them. Marcus's eyes sharpened. He knew what I meant. Working myself to death was better than going home to a wife I didn't know how to talk to.
"It's past midnight," Marcus said quietly. "You forget something?"
I frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"Check your calendar, genius."
I pulled out my phone and opened the calendar app. Today's date had a little heart emoji next to it. Emma must have synced our calendars again, always organizing things I never asked her to organize.
Then I saw what the heart meant.
Anniversary.
"Oh." The word came out flat. Five years. Had it really been five years already?
"'Oh?'" Marcus looked disgusted. "That's all you've got? Adrian, it's your fifth wedding anniversary and you're at the office past midnight!"
Guilt tried to crawl up my throat, but I swallowed it down. I was good at that—swallowing feelings until they disappeared. "I sent her a text earlier. She knows I'm working."
"A text." Marcus said it like I'd just admitted to murder. "You sent your wife a text on your anniversary."
"She understands. Emma's always understood—"
"Has she?" Marcus cut me off. "Or have you just never bothered to check?"
I felt my jaw tighten. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. Forget it." Marcus headed for the door, then stopped. "You know what? No, I won't forget it. Adrian, when's the last time you actually looked at your wife? Like really looked at her?"
The question made me uncomfortable. "I see her every day."
"Seeing and looking are different things. When's the last time you had a real conversation with Emma? Asked her how her day was? Took her to dinner?"
"We're both busy—"
"You're busy. She gave up her whole career to be your wife. You know she used to work at an art gallery? That she loved it? She quit because your mother said a Hartwell wife should focus on 'family duties.'" Marcus air-quoted the last part. "What family, Adrian? You're never home. You don't even sleep in the same bed as her."
"That's because I work late and don't want to wake her—"
"That's because you're a coward."
The words hit me like a slap. "Excuse me?"
"You married her out of guilt. You thought she was pregnant, did the 'honorable thing,' and when it turned out to be a false alarm, you were already stuck. So you've spent five years keeping her at arm's length because you're too much of a coward to admit you never wanted the marriage in the first place."
My hands clenched into fists. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I?" Marcus stepped closer. "You loved Vivian. She rejected you. You slept with Emma on the rebound, and now you're punishing Emma for not being her sister. That's the truth, and we both know it."
"Get out."
"Adrian—"
"I said get out!"
Marcus left, slamming the door behind him. I stood alone in the conference room, my hand throbbing, my head pounding, my chest tight with something I refused to name.
He was wrong. I wasn't punishing Emma. I gave her everything—a nice home, money, status. She had credit cards with no limits, drove a car that cost more than most houses, wore designer clothes to charity events.
What more could she want?
But Marcus's voice echoed in my head: When's the last time you actually looked at your wife?
I pulled out my phone and opened my photo gallery. I scrolled back through months of pictures. Business meetings. Golf with clients. Marcus and his wife at their beach house last summer.
I kept scrolling, looking for Emma. There had to be photos of my wife somewhere.
Six months back. Nothing.
A year back. Still nothing.
Two years. Three years. Four—
There. A wedding photo. Emma in a white dress, smiling at the camera while I looked somewhere off to the side. Even on our wedding day, I hadn't been looking at her.
I stared at the photo. Emma was beautiful—she'd always been beautiful. Soft features, kind eyes, a gentle smile that never quite reached her face when she looked at me.
When was the last time I'd made her smile for real?
When was the last time I'd tried?
My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: "Adrian, it's Vivian. Got a new phone. Guess what? I'm coming home! Divorced and done with Paris. Can't wait to see you tomorrow. Maybe we can finally talk about what happened between us?"
Vivian.
I hadn't heard from her in five years. Five years since she'd rejected my proposal and broken my heart. Five years since she'd chosen Paris over me.
And now she was coming back.
I should have felt something—anger, hurt, maybe even old feelings stirring. But all I felt was tired. So incredibly tired.
I looked at the wedding photo again. Emma's smile. The white dress. The promise I'd made and never kept.
My phone buzzed again. This time it was Emma calling.
I stared at her name on the screen. I should answer. It was our anniversary. I should go home, apologize, maybe bring flowers—
The call went to voicemail.
Something cold settled in my stomach. Emma never let calls go to voicemail. She always answered, always waited, always forgave.
I tried calling back. It rang once, then went straight to voicemail again.
She'd declined the call.
Emma had never declined my call before. Not once in five years.
I texted her: "Emma, I'm coming home. We need to talk. Stay there."
I grabbed my jacket and ran for the elevator. Something was wrong. I could feel it in my bones, the same way I felt when a business deal was about to fall apart.
The drive home took forever. Every red light felt like a personal attack. My hands gripped the steering wheel so hard they turned white.
Why had she declined my call? Why did it bother me so much? She was probably just asleep, or in the shower, or—
Vivian's text flashed in my mind. "Can't wait to see you tomorrow."
Tomorrow. Vivian would be at my home tomorrow. In the same space as Emma.
My wife and the woman I'd once loved in the same room.
I pulled into the parking garage and took the elevator up, my heart racing for reasons I couldn't explain. The penthouse was dark when I walked in. Silent.
Too silent.
I walked toward the bedroom, my footsteps echoing. Something felt off. The air was different, charged with tension I'd never felt before.
I opened the bedroom door.
Emma stood by the bed, her eyes wide like I'd caught her doing something wrong. Her hair was messy, her cheeks flushed. She looked beautiful and terrified and nothing like the calm, composed wife I was used to.
And I didn't know why, but the words that came out of my mouth were:
"Emma, are you pregnant?"
Her face went completely white.
She opened her mouth, closed it, then whispered, "Why would you ask me that?"
I didn't have an answer. I didn't know why I'd asked. Something about the way she looked at me, the fear in her eyes, the way she was standing—it reminded me of five years ago. The night that started everything.
"Are you?" I asked again.
Emma laughed, and it was the most broken sound I'd ever heard.
"No, Adrian. I'm not pregnant." She looked at me with eyes full of something that made my chest ache. "I'm leaving you."
The world stopped.
"What?"
"I'm done." Her voice was steady now, stronger than I'd ever heard it. "Five years is enough. I want a divorce."
And that's when I saw it—the edge of a suitcase sticking out from under the bed.
My wife wasn't just threatening to leave.
She was already packed.