The Final Score: When The Wife Walks Away

I forced myself to breathe.

I was an architect.

I designed skyscrapers capable of withstanding gale-force winds and seismic shifts.

Surely, I could withstand a dinner party.

Steeling my nerves, I returned to the terrace.

Ariana was lounging in my chair.

She was wearing the diamond earrings.

They caught the candlelight, winking at me in mockery.

"Oh, Caroline," she said, waving a fork airily. "We were just talking about how funny your marriage is. It's so... corporate. Like a merger."

"It is a merger," I said, taking my place by the railing. "That's why the buildings I design for the Family don't collapse. Unlike your gallery."

Her eyes flashed.

"That was arson!"

"It was cheap materials," I corrected coolly. "I saw the wreckage. You pocketed the budget difference, didn't you?"

Blake slammed his hand on the table.

"Enough, Caroline. Stop attacking her."

"I am stating facts," I said. "I am the Architect of Santos Real Estate. I know a load-bearing wall when I see one. And I know a parasite when I see one."

Ariana gasped.

"Blake! Are you going to let her speak to me like that?"

Before he could answer, the world ended.

A concussive boom tore through the building.

The stone floor beneath us heaved upward.

It wasn't a bomb.

It was the gas line in the kitchen below, rigged by the Irish mob.

The shockwave blew out the glass doors in a shower of glittering shrapnel.

The massive iron chandelier above the dining table groaned, its chain shearing like a twig.

Then, gravity took over.

I saw the shadow of the chandelier detach.

It was directly above the table.

Above Blake and Ariana.

I was three feet away.

Blake looked up.

He saw the metal death descending.

He had a choice.

He could dive left, toward me.

He could dive right, toward her.

He didn't hesitate.

Not even for a fraction of a second.

He lunged to the right.

He threw his body over Ariana, shielding her completely, curling around her like a human shell.

The chandelier crashed down.

It missed them by inches.

But the debris-the heavy crystal shards, the twisted iron, the chunks of ceiling-flew outward.

A massive slab of the ceiling beam, dislodged by the impact, swung down.

It slammed into my leg.

I heard the bone snap.

A sickening, wet crunch.

I fell, pinned under the rubble.

Dust choked the air.

Silence followed the roar.

"Ari?" Blake's voice was frantic. "Ari, are you hit?"

He scrambled up, checking her over.

"I'm okay," she coughed, her voice feathery. "You saved me. You covered me."

"Thank God," he breathed.

He helped her stand.

I tried to move.

White-hot agony ripped through my body.

"Blake," I wheezed.

He turned.

He saw me trapped under the beam, blood pooling on the white stone.

He looked at Ariana.

She was coughing, waving a hand in front of her face theatrically.

"The smoke," she whined. "My lungs."

Security burst onto the terrace.

"Boss! We have to move! Secondary explosion risk!"

Blake looked at the guards.

"Get Caroline," he ordered them.

Then he scooped Ariana up into his arms.

"I've got Ariana. She has respiratory issues. I'm taking her down the stairs."

"Blake!" I screamed, the pain in my leg blinding me. "My leg is crushed!"

"The guards have you," he yelled back, already running toward the exit with her.

Two guards lifted the beam off me.

I screamed as the blood rushed back into the shattered limb.

They dragged me up.

I watched him go.

He carried her like she was precious glass.

He left me to be dragged out like a sack of broken cement.

I didn't pass out.

I forced myself to stay awake.

I needed to remember this.

As the guard carried me down the fire escape, jarring my broken bone with every step, I visualized the ledger in my mind.

Minus twenty points.

He became her shield.

I became the casualty.

Score: 10.