I spent the entire afternoon preparing Nicholas's favorite meal—seared duck breast with cherry reduction, roasted fingerling potatoes, and the asparagus spears he preferred barely cooked. My hands moved through the familiar motions of chopping and seasoning, but my mind kept drifting to last night's hospital visit, to the doctor's careful words, to the way Nicholas had looked at Claudia.
The dining room glowed with warm candlelight when Nicholas finally came home at seven-thirty. I'd set the table with our wedding china—the delicate Limoges pattern his mother had insisted upon—and arranged white roses from the garden in a crystal vase. Everything perfect, everything designed to create the intimate atmosphere we so desperately needed.
"This looks lovely," Nicholas said, loosening his tie as he surveyed the table. But his voice carried that distant politeness he used with business associates, not the warmth of a husband coming home to his wife.
"I thought we could use a quiet evening together," I said, smoothing my hands over the emerald green dress I'd chosen—another of his supposed favorites. "After last night..."
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly as he took his seat across from me. "Let's just enjoy dinner, shall we?"
I served the duck with hands that trembled slightly, watching his face for any sign of appreciation, any crack in the wall he'd built between us. He ate mechanically, cutting precise bites and chewing thoughtfully, but his eyes remained fixed on his plate.
"How is Claudia feeling today?" I asked finally, unable to bear the silence any longer.
Nicholas's fork paused halfway to his mouth. "She's recovering."
"But what exactly happened? You never really explained—"
"Ariana." His voice carried a warning edge. "Some things are private family matters."
"I am family, Nicholas. I'm your wife." The words came out sharper than I'd intended, desperation bleeding through my careful composure.
He set down his fork and looked at me directly for the first time all evening. "Claudia had an accident. These things happen. There's nothing more to discuss."
"What kind of accident causes internal trauma that requires emergency surgery?" I pressed, my heart hammering against my ribs. "The doctor seemed to think—"
"The doctor was speculating." Nicholas's voice turned cold, dismissive. "Claudia slipped in the bathroom. Hit herself on the marble edge of the tub. Case closed."
But I'd seen bathroom accidents before. I'd never seen one that left someone unable to walk properly, that caused the kind of injuries Dr. Evans had described with such careful professional discretion.
"Nicholas, please. I just want to understand what's happening in our home. In our marriage." I reached across the table, my fingers barely grazing his wrist before he pulled away.
"Nothing is happening, Ariana. You're reading too much into a simple accident." He adjusted his cufflinks—that unconscious gesture he made whenever he was lying. I'd learned to recognize it years ago, though I'd never called him on it before.
The cherry reduction suddenly tasted like ash in my mouth. I set down my fork, appetite completely gone. "Why won't you talk to me anymore? When did we become strangers?"
"We're not strangers. We're married." He said it like they were mutually exclusive concepts.
"Are we? Because sometimes I feel like I'm living with a ghost. You come home late, you barely speak to me, and when something happens to Claudia, you fall apart completely but won't tell me why."
Nicholas's face hardened into the mask I knew too well—the one that meant the conversation was over whether I wanted it to be or not. "You're being dramatic, Ariana. This is exactly the kind of hysteria that makes it impossible to have rational discussions with you."
Hysteria. The word hit me like a slap. Twenty years of loving him, four years of marriage, and this was how he saw my legitimate concerns—as female hysteria.
We finished dinner in suffocating silence. Nicholas retreated to his study immediately afterward, claiming he had "important calls to make." I cleaned up alone, my hands shaking as I scraped untouched food into the garbage disposal.
By ten o'clock, I'd changed into the silk nightgown Nicholas had once said made me look like a goddess. The emerald green fabric clung to my curves, the neckline low enough to be enticing without being obvious. I'd brushed my hair until it fell in smooth waves over my shoulders and applied the perfume he'd given me for our first anniversary.
If words couldn't reach him, maybe intimacy could. Maybe if I could break through his walls, remind him of what we'd once had together, he would finally be honest with me.
I found him in our bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed in his undershirt and boxers, scrolling through his phone. The blue light cast harsh shadows across his face, making him look older, more distant.
"Nicholas?" I approached slowly, my bare feet silent on the Persian rug.
He glanced up, his gaze skimming over the nightgown without any visible reaction. "I thought you'd gone to bed already."
"I was waiting for you." I sat beside him on the bed, close enough that our thighs almost touched. "We haven't been together in so long. I miss you."
I reached for him, my hand trembling as it settled on his chest. His skin was warm through the thin cotton, his heartbeat steady and strong. For a moment, I thought I felt him lean into my touch.
Then he pulled away.
"I'm exhausted, Ariana." He set his phone on the nightstand and stood, creating distance between us. "It's been a difficult day."
"Then let me help you relax." I rose too, moving closer, my hands reaching for the hem of his undershirt. "Let me take care of you."
"No." The word came out harsh, final. He caught my wrists, holding them away from his body. "I'm too exhausted to think about anything romantic right now."
The rejection cut deeper than any physical blow could have. I stared at him, searching his face for any sign of the man who'd once made love to me with desperate passion, who'd whispered that I was beautiful, that he needed me.
That man was gone. Or maybe he'd never existed at all.
"When was the last time you touched me, Nicholas?" The question escaped before I could stop it. "Really touched me, not just... going through the motions?"
His hands dropped from my wrists, and he turned away, adjusting his cufflinks again even though he wasn't wearing any. The lie was written in every line of his body.
"I don't keep track of such things," he said to the window.
"Three months," I whispered. "It's been three months since you've made love to me. Three months since you've kissed me like you meant it. Three months since you've looked at me the way you look at—"
I stopped myself before I could say her name. Before I could voice the suspicion that was eating me alive from the inside out.
Nicholas's shoulders tensed. "The way I look at what?"
"Nothing." I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly feeling exposed and foolish in the silk nightgown. "Nothing at all."
He climbed into bed without another word, turning his back to me as he switched off his bedside lamp. The dismissal was complete, absolute.
I stood there in the darkness for a long time, listening to his breathing even out as he fell asleep. Or pretended to. The space between us in our king-sized bed felt like an ocean, cold and impossible to cross.
When I finally slipped under the covers, I stayed on my side, careful not to accidentally brush against him. The silk nightgown that was supposed to make me irresistible felt like a costume for a play no one wanted to watch.
In the darkness, with my husband's back turned to me and the scent of another woman's perfume still lingering in the air, I finally allowed myself to think the thought I'd been avoiding all day.
My marriage was over. Had been over for months, maybe years.
I just hadn't been brave enough to admit it until now.
