The Contract Wife Chapter 03
The next evening, Nathan flew in from Los Angeles.
I was waiting for him in the living room.
Before he could raise his arms in that habitual gesture of pulling me in for a hug, I slid a document across the table between us.
“What’s this?” He blinked, momentarily thrown, and sat down beside me.
“The prenup.”
I looked at him steadily.
“There are two months left on our three-year clause. But if you’re in a hurry, we can divorce now.”
His brow furrowed. Surprise flickered in his eyes. “Evelyn, what do you mean by this?”
“Whatever is between you and Miss Calloway isn’t my concern.”
My voice didn’t waver.
“But I don’t want to occupy this spot any longer. When I proposed the merger, I didn’t know you had a girlfriend. I’m sorry—I have no interest in playing the third party who tore two lovers apart.”
Something in Nathan’s expression stalled. He reached out to put an arm around my shoulders.
“It ended between her and me a long time ago. Those letters were something she wrote on her own. It has nothing to do with me. She… my parents used money and threats to force her to leave, back then. I was the one who let her down first. But between us now—we really are past tense.”
I flinched back. His hand froze in midair.
At last, he sighed softly.
“Don’t overthink it. The three years aren’t up. You’re still the wife of the Ashford heir.”
I nodded. “All right.”
He looked at me a few seconds longer, then stood and said he was going to shower.
That night, we ate dinner as usual. Afterward, we curled up in the home theater to watch an old movie. In the roll of the closing credits, we drifted into intimacy the way we always did.
When it was over, he held me as we fell asleep, the way he always did.
For a moment, I almost let myself sink into the warmth of it—almost let myself believe, again, that he might actually love me.
I woke sometime in the middle of the night.
The space beside me was empty.
Instinctively, I looked toward the balcony.
The curtains hadn’t been drawn fully. There was a narrow gap.
Through it, I could see his silhouette on the balcony, back turned to me, phone lifted to his ear.
“…I’ve already had the PR team handle the trending topic,” his voice drifted in, indistinct.
“I don’t want this affecting the partnership between Ashford Holdings and Sinclair Capital. The board is under enormous pressure.”
A pause. Then: “Ruby. What’s between us is over.”
I stood barefoot behind the curtain, fingers curling tight.
He seemed to be listening. A long stretch passed before he spoke again. “…Get some rest.”
I thought he was about to come back inside, but then he dialed another number.
“Get in touch with Ruby’s agent. The global spokesperson slot for the brand is hers. We can negotiate the terms.”
I heard the click of a lighter. A brief flare in the darkness. He was smoking.
Early in our marriage, he’d sometimes come home from a work function smelling of smoke. I’d coughed a few times, and after that, I never saw him smoke again.
I’d thought he’d quit. Turns out he’d just never done it in front of me.
I stood behind the curtain and watched him light one cigarette after another.
My feet were cold. Only then did I realize I was standing barefoot on the floor.
I slipped quietly back into bed, lay down, and closed my eyes.