Once upon a time, I’d loved my husband.
His beauty, his ambition, his intelligence. The wildflowers he’d plucked for me on his way home from a graveyard shift, and the gentle kisses he’d trailed over my shoulder when I stubbornly refused to heed my alarm clock.
But once upon a time was a long time ago, and now, as I watched him walk through the door for the first time in weeks, all I felt was a deep, dull ache in the places where love once resided.
“You’re home early,” I said, even though it was near midnight. “How was work?”
“Fine.” Dominic shrugged out of his coat, revealing an immaculate gray suit and crisp white shirt. Both custom-made, both costing upward of four figures. Only the best for Dominic Davenport, the so-called King of Wall Street. “Work was work.”
He gave me a perfunctory kiss on the lips. A familiar whiff of citrus and sandalwood brushed my senses and made my heart squeeze. He’d worn the same cologne since I gifted it to him a decade ago during our first trip to Brazil. I used to find the loyalty romantic, but the new cynic in me whispered it was only because he couldn’t be bothered to find a new scent.
Dominic didn’t care about anything that didn’t make him money.
He flicked his eyes over the lipstick-smudged wine glasses and remnants of Chinese takeout on the coffee table. Our housekeeper was on vacation, and I’d been in the middle of cleaning up when Dominic came home.
“Did you have friends over?” he asked, sounding only marginally interested.
“Just the girls.” My friends and I had celebrated a financial milestone for my small pressed flower business, which was nearing its two-year anniversary, but I didn’t bother sharing the accomplishment with my husband. “We were supposed to go out to dinner, but we stayed in at the last minute instead.”
“Sounds nice.” Dominic had already moved on to his phone. He had a strict no-email policy, so he was probably checking the Asian stock markets.
A knot formed in my throat.
He was still as breathtakingly handsome as the first time I saw him in our college library. Dark blond hair, navy eyes, a sculpted face set in a semi-permanent pensive expression. It wasn’t a face that smiled easily, but I liked that about him. There was no fakeness; if he smiled, he meant it.
When was the last time either of us had smiled at the other the way we used to?
When was the last time he touched me? Not for sex, but for casual affection.
The knot pulled tighter, restricting the flow of oxygen. I swallowed past it and forced my lips to curve upward. “Speaking of dinner, don’t forget our trip this weekend. We have a Friday night reservation in DC.”
“I won’t.” He tapped something on his screen.
“Dom.” My voice firmed. “It’s important.”
I’d put up with dozens of missed dates, canceled trips, and broken promises over the years, but our ten-year wedding anniversary was one of a kind. It was unmissable.
Dominic finally glanced up. “I won’t forget. I promise.” Something flickered in his eyes. “Ten years already. It’s hard to believe.”
“Yes.” My cheeks might crack from the force of my smile. “It is.” I hesitated, then added, “Are you hungry? I can heat up some food and you can tell me about your day.”
He had a bad habit of forgetting to eat when he was working. Knowing him, he hadn’t touched anything except coffee since lunch. I used to visit his office and make sure he ate when he was starting out, but those visits stopped after Davenport Capital took off and he became too busy.
“No, I have some client things to take care of. I’ll grab something later.”
He was back on his phone, his brow furrowed in a deep frown.
“But…” I thought you were done with work for the day. Isn’t that why you’re home?
I bit back my question. There was no use asking things I already knew the answer to.
Dominic was never done with work. It was the world’s most demanding mistress.
“Don’t wait up for me. I’ll be in my office for a while.” His lips grazed my cheek on his way past me. “Good night.”
He was already gone by the time I responded. “Good night.”
The words echoed in our palatial, empty living room. It was the first night I’d been awake to see Dominic come home in weeks, and our conversation had ended before it really began.
I blinked back an embarrassing sting of tears. So what if my husband felt like a stranger? I felt like a stranger to myself sometimes when I looked in the mirror.
At the end of the day, I was married to one of the richest men on Wall Street, I lived in a beautiful house most people would kill for, and I owned a small but thriving business doing what I loved. I had no good reason to cry.
I took a deep breath, straightened my shoulders, and plucked the empty takeout boxes off the coffee table. By the time I finished cleaning up, the pressure behind my eyes had disappeared like it’d never been there at all.
