Part 1No Room For Your Bitter Regret

This marriage was a transaction from the very beginning.

My family’s firm desperately needed an influx of capital to stay afloat; her family’s corporation was staring down the barrel of a massive lawsuit that only our political connections could make disappear. We were business partners, signing a contract disguised as a marriage license.

Sleeping in separate bedrooms became the unspoken rule. Once, early on, I tentatively asked if she might want me to move my things into the master suite.

She rejected the idea without a second of hesitation. Her reason was simple: "Patrick would mind."

Patrick. The golden boy. The untouchable first love carved so deeply into her bones that there was no room left for anyone else.

She had looked at me with eyes like cracked ice and delivered the final blow: "If your family hadn't forced this hand, we wouldn't even be having this conversation. This arrangement is fine as it is."

I had stood frozen in the hallway for what felt like hours, my throat tight, before finally managing a hoarse, "Okay."

Since the parameters were so clearly drawn, I stopped looking for warmth in a house built on ice.

For the next three years, the ghost of Patrick haunted every corner of her life. Whether it was a Belmont family dinner, a corporate gala, or even my own father's birthday banquet, the man standing dutifully by her side was always him. I could see the whispers behind the champagne glasses, the polite but pitying stares of the elite circle, silently placing bets on who the real husband in this story was.

But it’s fine now. The lawsuit is buried, my family’s firm is thriving again. Our mutual usefulness has run its course.

It is time to leave this hollow shell of a home.

* * *

I sat in the dim light of the study, reading the divorce agreement from top to bottom one last time.

Black ink on stark white paper. Methodical. Clean.

Under the division of assets, I had left every box blank. I didn't want a single dime. This sprawling estate in Beacon Hill belonged to her before we wed, the cars were hers, the company shares had nothing to do with me. I was leaving with the exact balance my personal checking account held the day we walked down the aisle.

I uncapped my pen and signed my name.

Wesley Callahan.

Three years ago, I was foolish enough to believe that even a marriage born of corporate strategy could grow into something real, if only I tended to it well enough.

God, I was so stupid.

I slid the papers into a manila envelope, leaving it dead center on the mahogany coffee table. Then, I pulled out my phone and tapped on my text thread with her.

"Come home a little early tonight. We need to talk."

Two minutes bled by. A single grey bubble popped up next to her immaculate headshot.

"Yeah."

I locked my screen and tossed the phone onto the leather sofa.

Turning on my heel, I walked into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water. It was a designer's dream—a massive Sub-Zero fridge, double built-in ovens, imported German cutlery—all gleaming, untouched, arranged like a museum exhibit.

I rarely used it anymore.

When we were first married, I tried. I really did. I wanted her to come home to the smell of a warm meal.

The first time, I spent hours slow-roasting red wine braised short ribs. She took one polite bite, said it was "fine," and then her phone buzzed. She walked out the door five minutes later. Patrick needed something.

The second time, I made pan-seared scallops. She never even came home.

The third time, I cooked an absolute feast. I stood over the stove from four in the afternoon until seven in the evening. She actually walked through the front door—but Patrick was trailing right behind her.

They were laughing, a shared inside joke dying on their lips the moment they saw me standing there with flour on my apron and a table full of food. Viola blinked, her smile faltering.

"We have reservations," she said flatly. "We're heading back out."

Patrick stood just behind her shoulder, tilting his head. He offered me a soft, patronizing smile. "Looks like you worked hard."

Just thinking about that smile now makes battery acid pool in my stomach.

I never cooked another meal.

Seven o'clock came. She wasn't home.

Eight o'clock. Nothing.

At nine, my phone finally vibrated.

I picked it up. A text from Viola.

"Patrick is dealing with something. I'm going to be late. Don't wait up."

I stared at the glowing screen for a long time.

Don't wait up.

I had lived inside those three words for three years. It was always like this. It was always Patrick. He was a man in perpetual crisis, and she was his eternal savior.

If he caught a cold, she had to be there. If he felt melancholic, she was his sounding board. When he moved apartments, she was boxing up his life. When he adopted a stray cat, she was picking out the kibble.

Once, Patrick mentioned craving a specific slice of red velvet cake from a bakery across town. Viola drove forty minutes in gridlock traffic, delivered it to his loft, and waited for him to finish eating before driving back.

She got home at 1:00 AM.

"Did you even eat dinner?" I had asked her in the dark kitchen.

"I ate at Patrick's," she replied, not looking at me. She went straight to the shower and then locked herself in the guest bedroom.

I should have understood it then.

But I didn't.

I held onto the naive belief that a wedding ring bought me time. I thought that if I was patient, if I gave her space, she would eventually notice that I wasn't so bad. That if I was just good enough, quiet enough, supportive enough, she would eventually turn her head and look at the life we could build.

Looking back, it’s laughable. When someone has absolutely no space for you in their heart, your goodness is just white noise. She wouldn't love me for being perfect; she would just view my perfection as entirely irrelevant to her.

I didn't reply to her text.

In the past, I would always type back an immediate "Okay," just to show I was reliable. Sometimes I'd add a pathetic "Drive safe," desperate to perform the role of the understanding, magnanimous husband.

Tonight, I couldn't stomach it.

It didn't matter anyway. In a few days, she wouldn't have to text me at all.