His Unwanted Wife: The Genius's Spectacular Comeback

The Bentley purred into the private garage beneath the Park Avenue building, its tires whispering against the concrete. Christa stared at her reflection in the tinted window, watching the city lights blur and smear as they descended into the underground space. "Thank you, Thomas." She didn't wait for the driver to open her door. She stepped out into the artificial light, her bare feet silent against the cold floor. She had removed her heels somewhere on the Long Island Expressway, unable to bear the pinch of them for another second. The private elevator rose smoothly, its mirrored walls multiplying her image into infinity. Christa studied the woman in the glass. Pale skin, dark hair pulled back too tightly, eyes that looked like they belonged to someone else. The doors opened onto the penthouse foyer. "Mrs. Sanford." Maura O'Connell stood waiting, her hands folded at her waist, her face carefully neutral. "You're home early. May I get you anything? Tea? Something stronger?" Christa shook her head. She walked past the housekeeper, her stockinged feet leaving faint impressions on the marble. The floor was freezing. She welcomed the sensation. "I'll rest. Cora?" "Sleeping, ma'am. Gladys is with her." Christa nodded and continued toward the master suite. The apartment stretched around her, vast and silent, every surface polished to a mirror sheen. The Manhattan skyline glittered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, a constellation of wealth and ambition that had once made her feel safe. Now it looked like a cage. She entered the walk-in closet, twelve hundred square feet of organized luxury. Her fingers found the zipper of the Tom Ford gown and pulled. The silk pooled at her feet like something dead. She kicked it toward the laundry basket. Then she kicked the basket itself, sending it skidding across the floor. The bathroom was white marble and chrome, the shower big enough for four. Christa turned the water to scalding and stepped inside fully dressed, her slip and undergarments plastering to her skin. She stood with her face tilted into the spray, letting it beat against her eyelids, her cheekbones, her mouth. Denny's voice echoed in the water's roar. Dr. Byrd cares about her lab and her patents. Completely harmless. She scrubbed her skin until it reddened, until she could smell nothing but soap and steam. Then she stood still again, watching the water spiral down the drain. When she finally emerged, she wrapped herself in a robe and faced the mirror. The woman looking back had wet hair plastered to her skull and eyes that had stopped being afraid. Something had replaced the fear. Something harder. She walked back into the bedroom and stopped. Denny was sitting on the edge of their bed, loosening his tie. He looked up when she entered, and his face broke into the smile she had fallen in love with twelve years ago. The smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made him look, briefly, like the man she had believed him to be. "Chris." He stood, reaching for her. "You left early. I looked everywhere." Christa's heart performed a strange stutter-step in her chest. She watched his hands extend toward her, watched his body lean into the familiar choreography of their marriage. She stepped sideways. The movement was small, almost casual. She reached for her moisturizer on the dressing table, her back to him, and began applying it with methodical precision. "I wasn't feeling well," she said. Denny's hands hung in the air for a moment, then dropped. She heard the confusion in his silence. "You should have told me. I would have driven you back." "I'm capable of managing a car service." She kept her eyes on her reflection, watching him in the mirror's edge. He was studying her, his head tilted in that way he had when he was trying to read data that didn't match his expectations. "Brittany was distraught," he said finally. "I stayed to help her manage the guests. It was... difficult." Christa screwed the cap back onto her moisturizer. Her fingers didn't shake. "She's suffered a terrible loss," she said. "You were right to comfort her." The words tasted like copper. She watched Denny's face relax, watched him accept her response as the forgiveness he was seeking. He moved closer, standing behind her now. His hands settled on her shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the muscle at the base of her neck. The touch that had once made her melt now made her want to recoil. She held still. "You're cold," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. "Come to bed. I'll warm you up." His hands slid down her arms, gathering her robe's belt, pulling her back against his chest. She could feel him through his shirt, the familiar planes of his body, the cologne she had chosen for him three Christmases ago. She stepped forward, out of his grasp. "I'll sleep in the dressing room," she said. "I don't want to disturb you if I'm restless." Denny's reflection showed his confusion deepening into something else. Concern, perhaps. Or the first flicker of annoyance. "Christa. We've never slept apart. Not once in seven years." She turned to face him directly. It took effort to meet his eyes, to hold her expression in the mask of mild indisposition. "I told you. I'm not well." She paused, letting a hint of irritation enter her voice. "I'd appreciate some space, Denny. Is that too much to ask?" He stared at her. She watched him calculate-the cost of pressing further, the inconvenience of a wounded wife, the distraction from whatever awaited him on his phone. "Fine." The word was clipped. "If that's what you need." He turned away, stripping off his shirt with sharp, angry movements. Christa walked into the dressing room and closed the door softly behind her. The sofa bed was narrow, designed for occasional use rather than regular sleeping. She pulled the cashmere throw from its storage bench and lay down fully clothed, staring at the ceiling where recessed lighting created patterns like distant galaxies. In the bedroom, she heard Denny's breathing slow into sleep. Christa lay awake, counting the hours until morning.