My Husband Ignored My Calls Until My Mother Died

The cab smelled like old coffee and vinyl. I sat in the back and watched the city slide past the window. Glass towers. Concrete. People walking fast with their heads down.

The envelope sat in my lap. I didn't open it. I already knew what it said.

The driver turned onto Park Avenue. Gibson Capital was ahead. Forty-three floors of steel and glass. Warren's name on the building in letters taller than me.

My father's money had paid for the first five floors.

I stepped out onto the sidewalk. The sun was bright. Too bright. I squinted and walked toward the entrance.

The lobby was marble and chrome. My heels clicked on the floor. Security waved me through. They knew who I was. Warren Gibson's wife. They always let me through.

I took the elevator to the fortieth floor. The doors opened.

Diana Solis sat at her desk outside Warren's office. She looked up when I stepped out. Her eyes went to the envelope in my hand. Then to my face.

She didn't say anything. She just looked at me for a long moment. Then she stood and stepped to the side.

I walked past her. She didn't stop me.

I opened Warren's door without knocking.

Zara was sitting on his desk. Not in a chair. On the desk. Her legs crossed. Her red skirt hiked up just enough. She had a crystal bowl in her lap. Grapes. She was feeding them to Warren one at a time.

He was laughing. His chair tilted back. His tie loose. His hand resting on her knee.

They both looked at me.

Zara's smile froze. Warren's hand didn't move.

I walked straight to her.

I slapped her across the face.

The sound cracked through the room like a branch snapping. She fell sideways off the desk. The bowl hit the floor. Grapes rolled across the carpet.

She looked up at me from the ground. Her hand pressed to her cheek. Her mouth open.

I turned to Warren.

He was standing now. His face red. His jaw tight.

I slapped him.

Harder.

His head snapped to the side. A thin line of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth.

I heard someone gasp. I didn't turn. I knew the glass walls were clear. I knew everyone on the floor below could see us.

I didn't care.

I set the envelope on his desk. My hand was steady.

"You can keep everything," I said. My voice was quiet. Calm. "I just want to never see your face again."

Warren stared at me. His chest rose and fell. His hand touched his mouth. He looked at the blood on his fingers.

Then he grabbed the envelope. Ripped it open. Pulled out the papers.

He read the first page. His eyes moved fast. His mouth twisted.

"You think you can just walk out?" His voice was low. Shaking. "After everything I gave you?"

"You gave me nothing," I said.

He snatched a pen from his desk. Clicked it open. Signed the first page. Then the second. Then the third. His hand moved so fast the pen tore the paper.

He threw the papers at me. They fluttered to the floor.

"Fine," he said. "Go. And I'll make sure you get nothing. I'll cancel the medical fund for your mother. Let's see how—"

"Warren." Diana's voice came from the doorway. Soft. Careful.

He turned. "What?"

Diana stood just inside the office. Her hands folded in front of her. Her face pale.

"Eliana's mother passed away," she said. "Three days ago."

The room went silent.

Warren's mouth opened. No sound came out.

The pen fell from his hand. It hit the desk. Rolled. Dropped to the floor.

He looked at me. His face was white.

"Eliana—"

"Don't," I said.

I bent down. Picked up the signed papers. Folded them once. Slid them back into the envelope.

Zara was still on the floor. She hadn't moved. Her hand still pressed to her cheek. Her eyes wide.

I looked at her. Then at Warren.

"My mother died alone," I said. "In a hospital in Seattle. Because you turned off your phone."

Warren took a step toward me. His hand reached out.

I stepped back.

"Don't touch me," I said. "Don't call me. Don't come to my apartment. We're done."

I turned and walked to the door.

Diana moved aside. Her eyes were wet.

I walked past her. Down the hall. Past the cubicles. Everyone was staring. I didn't look at them.

I took the elevator down. Walked through the lobby. Stepped out onto Park Avenue.

The sun was still too bright.

I held the envelope against my chest and walked.

I didn't look back.