The morning sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the silent air. Eve sat on the sprawling white sofa, a cashmere throw clutched around her shoulders. The coffee on the table in front of her was cold. She hadn't slept.
The penthouse was so quiet she could hear the ticking of the minimalist clock on the wall. The door to the master bedroom, his bedroom, remained closed. An unbreached fortress.
She picked up her phone. The screen glowed with yesterday's news. She mechanically refreshed the page.
More photos had appeared. A video.
Augustine and Bianca at a Michelin-starred restaurant. Bianca, laughing, reached across the table to adjust his tie. He didn't pull away.
The comments section was a viper's nest.
"OMG, they look so perfect together!"
"Who is this Eve Clarke person? A temporary replacement?"
"Poor girl. Just another casualty of a dynastic marriage."
The word "replacement" made her stomach clench. She shut off the phone, the screen going dark like a closing eye.
She stood up and walked into the kitchen. Her body moved on autopilot, pulling out the ingredients for Augustine's breakfast. Freshly squeezed orange juice. The specific brand of Irish oatmeal he preferred. It was a pathetic, ingrained habit, a ritual for a god who never showed up.
Mrs. Davis entered the kitchen, her kind face etched with worry. "Ma'am, you..."
"I'm fine, Mrs. Davis," Eve said, her voice a hollow echo of itself. "Just a bad night's sleep." She packed the oatmeal into a thermal container. "If Mr. Rhodes comes back, please make sure he eats this."
The housekeeper's eyes were filled with a deep, sorrowful pity. "Of course, ma'am."
Eve went to the walk-in closet to get dressed. Her clothes occupied one side, his the other. A stark, physical representation of their lives. Separate. Untouching.
She decided to go to his office. It was something she had never done before, showing up unannounced. A violation of their unspoken rules.
At the gleaming lobby of Rhodes Tower, the receptionist stopped her with a polite, impenetrable smile. "I'm sorry, Ms. Clarke. Without an appointment, I can't let you up. Mr. Rhodes is in a very important meeting."
"I'm his wife," Eve said, the words tasting like ash in her mouth.
The receptionist's smile didn't waver. "We're aware, but company policy is absolute."
It was the ultimate humiliation. His wife. Barred from entry like a common stranger.
Just as she was about to turn away, defeated, Augustine's executive assistant appeared. He was impeccably dressed, his expression neutral.
"Ms. Clarke," he said smoothly. "Mr. Rhodes asked me to convey a message. He said that all wedding matters are at your discretion. He has complete faith in your taste."
The words were a perfectly constructed wall, blocking any possibility of a real conversation. He was managing her. Handling her.
Eve walked out of the building, the city's noise a dull roar in her ears. She felt like a joke. The whole world knew her husband was with another woman, and she, the wife, couldn't even get past his front desk.
She sat in her car for a long time, the engine off. Her phone vibrated.
The screen read: Eleanor Rhodes.
Augustine's grandmother. The matriarch.
Eve took a deep, steadying breath and answered. "Grandmother."
Eleanor's voice was warm, like aged whiskey. "Eve, my dear. I saw the news. Don't you pay it any mind. Augustine has his moods, and men will be men. Your wedding is what's important."
The words were meant to be soothing, but they felt like ice water. Eleanor wasn't concerned about Eve's pain. She was concerned about the wedding. The family's image.
"This weekend, I want you to come to the estate," Eleanor continued, her tone shifting from gentle to commanding. "We'll have a family meeting. Settle these details once and for all."
It wasn't a request.
"Yes, Grandmother," Eve murmured.
Hanging up, a profound sense of powerlessness washed over her. In this marriage, everyone cared about the title "Mrs. Rhodes." No one cared about Eve.
On the drive home, she passed a newsstand. The front page of a tabloid featured a large photo of Augustine and Bianca, side-by-side. The headline screamed: OLD FLAME RETURNS, WHERE IS THE NEW WIFE?
Eve slammed on the brakes, pulling the car over to the curb. She rested her forehead against the steering wheel, her shoulders shaking with silent, wracking sobs.
After a few minutes, her phone rang again.
The name on the screen made her heart leap with a stupid, desperate hope.
Augustine.
She snatched it up. "Hello?"
His voice was low and devoid of any emotion. "I heard you came to the office today."
Her lips parted. She wanted to scream, to ask about the photos, about Bianca, about where he was last night.
But all that came out was a weak "I... I just wanted to talk to you."
"There's nothing to talk about," he cut in, his voice sharp with impatience. "Don't do that again. It's disruptive. I won't be home tonight. Make your own arrangements."
The line went dead.
Eve held the silent phone to her ear, staring blankly through the windshield. The last, flickering ember of hope had been extinguished.
