Placeholder Wife Decides to Leave

Vincent’s office was drenched in rainlight, the sky outside streaked with gray, the city blurred behind glass. I hovered by the doorway, clutching my portfolio to my chest, feeling the weight of everything unsaid between us. The image of Isabella’s hands on his tie still lingered in my mind—a sour taste I couldn’t swallow down. But Vincent wasn’t looking at me with indifference today. Instead, he reached into a sleek white box on his desk and held it out.

"Here." His voice was almost gentle. "Macarons. From that place on Spring you like."

I stared at the pastel pastries nestled in their box—rose, pistachio, salted caramel—all colors soft and delicate, a peace offering in edible form. My stomach tightened. I hadn’t mentioned that bakery in months. Was this guilt, or something more?

"Thanks," I managed, accepting the box with careful fingers. The scent was sweet and unfamiliar in the office’s sterile air. I set my portfolio aside, my movements slow, uncertain. Vincent watched me, eyes narrowed, as if searching for a reaction. But my face was practiced neutrality.

He gestured to the leather couch. "You’ve been running all day. Sit."

I did, more out of habit than comfort, crossing my ankles, macaron box balanced on my lap. Vincent moved behind his desk, but he didn’t open his laptop or reach for his phone. Instead, he leaned against the edge, arms folded, gaze fixed on me.

The silence stretched, punctuated only by the distant hum of traffic, muffled by the rain. My exhaustion crashed into me all at once—the sleepless nights, the endless PR battles, the ache in my chest that never seemed to fade. I bit into a rose macaron, the flavor dissolving on my tongue. Something in me unwound, just a fraction.

Vincent’s eyes softened, but he didn’t say anything. I leaned back, letting my head rest against the cool leather, eyelids fluttering. The city outside faded into white noise, and somewhere between the taste of sugar and the rain tapping the windows, I drifted. My last sight before sleep was Vincent still watching me, his jaw tense, hands restless.

When I woke, the light had shifted. My cheek was pressed against something warm and steady—Vincent’s thigh. I blinked, disoriented, feeling his hand gently stroking my hair. The sensation was so foreign, so tender, I almost wondered if I was dreaming.

He didn’t notice I’d woken. His fingers moved slowly, tracing the line of my scalp, pausing at the crown as if memorizing the shape of me. There was a tension to him—a kind of careful desperation—like he was afraid to break the moment. His thumb brushed the edge of my ear, so soft I barely felt it.

I kept my breathing even, pretending to sleep, letting myself soak in the rare comfort. Beneath the surface, questions clawed at me. Did he do this for her? Did his hands ever linger on Becky’s hair, gentle in the private dark? Was I only a stand-in, a body close enough to touch but never truly seen?

Vincent’s breath hitched. His hand stilled. I felt the shift—the wall slamming back into place. When I stirred, lifting my head, the softness vanished. He cleared his throat, straightened his jacket, face already closing off.

"You fell asleep," he said, tone clipped, as if the intimacy had been an accident.

I sat up, smoothing my hair, cheeks flushed. "Sorry. I didn’t mean to—"

"It’s fine." His gaze flicked away, searching for something else to focus on. "You should eat. You missed lunch."

I nodded, too tired to protest, reaching for another macaron. The silence between us was thick, charged with all the words we refused to say. I glanced at the rain streaking the glass, feeling the ache settle back into my bones.

The business dinner that night was a blur of crystal glasses, clinking forks, and forced laughter. Vincent played the role of the attentive husband, but his smiles didn’t reach his eyes. I watched him from across the table as he talked numbers and contracts, his hand tightening around his glass every time someone mentioned Isabella’s name or referenced the latest tabloid piece.

Afterward, I rode home alone. The penthouse was silent when I arrived, the city lights casting fractured patterns on polished floors. I reheated soup, set out plates, waited until midnight for Vincent to return. When he finally staggered through the door, the air was thick with whiskey and rain.

He dumped his keys on the counter, jacket askew, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. He leaned against the kitchen island, staring at me as if I’d done something unforgivable simply by existing.

"Why don’t you ever get mad at me?" Vincent’s voice was raw, unsteady—a choked whisper that skittered across the marble. "Why do you never fight? Never yell? Never… care enough to hate me?"

I set down my spoon, pulse quickening. "Vincent, I—"

He slammed his palm against the countertop, the sound sharp, echoing. "You handle everything. You clean up the messes, you smile for the cameras, you pretend nothing’s wrong. Do you even feel anything? Or am I just… another job to you?"

His words cut deep, slicing through the numbness I’d built like armor. I forced myself to meet his gaze—the storm in his eyes, the pain and fury swirling just beneath the surface. He was unraveling, bit by bit, and I was the catalyst.

"Would you rather I scream?" My voice trembled, half anger, half heartbreak. "Would that make you feel better?"

He laughed—a broken, bitter sound. "At least then I’d know you’re alive. At least then I’d know you’re here, that you’re not just—"

He trailed off, fists clenched, breathing ragged. The kitchen was too bright, the overhead lights harsh on his features, illuminating every crack in the façade.

"You want me to fight for you," I said quietly. "But you never gave me anything to fight for, Vincent. Not really."

He stared at me, lips parted, as if he’d never considered the possibility. A silence fell, thick as fog. In it, all the years of neglect and longing pressed against me, suffocating.

Just then, his phone buzzed, the shrill ringtone slicing through the tension. He glanced at the screen, color draining from his face. For a heartbeat, I saw fear—real, visceral—before he masked it.

He answered, voice taut. "Hello?"

I caught the faint sound of a woman’s voice, lilting and familiar, filtered through the line. Becky. Even through the static, I recognized her—her laughter, her casual entitlement. A knife twisting in my chest.

Vincent’s posture changed instantly—shoulders squared, voice low and urgent. "I’ll come. Give me half an hour."

He ended the call, avoiding my eyes. The soup congealed on the stove, the macarons untouched on the counter. Everything in the room felt suddenly colder.

"I have to go," he muttered, already grabbing his keys, his movements frantic. "Don’t wait up."

The door slammed behind him, leaving me alone with the echo of his desperation and the hollow ache of a meal untouched. Outside, the rain hammered the city, relentless, unforgiving.

I stared at the empty room, the silence heavy with everything I’d never said. The only sound was the distant hum of the elevator, carrying Vincent away—again—and the soft, persistent tap of rain against glass, counting down the moments until he returned, or until I finally decided I wouldn’t wait at all.