First message
Nine months of marriage, and Brian didn’t know her favorite color. He did know her dress size because he sent a stylist to dress her for galas. He knew which earrings she hated, because she never wore them twice.
At thirty, Brian knew when the markets opened. He knew the seventh-day retention numbers for every studio he invested in.
And now he knew his wife was sleeping with her coworker.
The thought made him feel sick.
The driver brought her home just after midnight. She walked in already irritated, dropped her bag and looked at him.
“Sit down,” Brian said calmly, pointing at the chair in the living room.
She looked at him for a second, then sat like she was doing him a favor.
Brian stayed standing.
“Tell me what you want,” he said. “Anything. A company, a hobby, your own studio, I don’t care. Just tell me what the fuck I am supposed to do to make you actually be my wife.”
He moved closer without planning to, one hand against the back of the chair, trapping her there.
Her expression did not change.
That made it worse.