After Divorce:My arrogant ex-husband regrets

The private elevator doors slid open with a soft, cheerful chime that sounded obscene in the silence of the apartment.

Deliah lay perfectly still, her back to the door, listening. She heard the heavy tread of his footsteps on the floor. Jere stepped into the dark penthouse, the rustle of fabric telling her he was loosening his tie. He was home. The negotiation-the birthday party-was over.

He walked into the master bedroom. The air shifted as he entered, bringing with him the outside world. He paused near the doorway. He must have smelled the faint, lingering scent of antiseptic from her hand, but he didn't say anything. He probably assumed the cleaning staff had used a new product.

He approached the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat on the edge. Deliah could feel the heat radiating from him, a warmth that used to be her sanctuary but now felt like a threat.

He reached out to touch her shoulder. His hand was heavy, possessive.

Deliah flinched violently. Her body reacted before her mind could stop it, jerking away from his touch as if he were a hot iron.

Jere paused, his hand hovering in the air. "You're awake?"

Deliah didn't answer immediately. As he leaned closer, a scent wafted from his suit jacket. It wasn't the smell of a conference room, stale coffee, or the crisp scent of his usual cologne. It was sweet. Sickeningly sweet. Vanilla and some heavy, cloying floral note that clung to the fabric like a second skin.

It was a woman's perfume. Unmistakable. It smelled cheap to Deliah's refined nose, or perhaps it was just the association that made it repulsive, but it was alien. It didn't belong in this room. It didn't belong on her husband.

Deliah sat up, clutching the duvet to her chest, hiding her bandaged hand in the folds of the fabric. The darkness hid her face, but she knew he could feel the tension radiating off her.

"Meeting ran late," Jere said, his voice smooth, practiced. It was the voice he used for shareholders. "It was brutal. The Europeans wouldn't budge on the valuation."

Deliah stared at his silhouette. He was so good at this. If she hadn't seen the photo, she would have believed him. She would have gotten up to make him tea. She would have rubbed his shoulders.

He leaned in to kiss her. It was an instinct for him, a way to seek intimacy to assuage his own guilt, to prove that everything was normal.

Deliah turned her head sharply. His lips landed awkwardly on her cheek. His skin was cold from the night air.

Jere pulled back, irritation seeping into his tone. "What is wrong with you?"

Deliah kept her voice quiet, almost a whisper. "Did the meeting go well?"

"Yes," Jere lied effortlessly. "We closed the deal."

Deliah felt bile rise in her throat, burning and acidic. "You smell like vanilla."

Jere stiffened. It was imperceptible to anyone who didn't know him, a tiny locking of the jaw, a slight pause in his breathing. He hadn't expected her to notice. He hadn't bothered to check. But he recovered instantly. "Must be the catering. They had these dessert trays everywhere."

His eyes adjusted to the moonlight filtering in through the sheer curtains. He noticed the white gauze wrapped around her hand. "What happened?"

He reached for her hand, his voice dropping into that register of concern that used to make her knees weak. "Did you cut yourself?"

Deliah yanked her hand away, tucking it back under the covers. "It's nothing. Just a broken glass." She paused, letting the silence stretch until it was thin and brittle. "Like our anniversary dinner."

Jere froze.

The silence that followed was different. It wasn't the silence of an empty room; it was the silence of a man realizing he had made a tactical error. Their third wedding anniversary had been two days ago. He had missed it then, too, claiming work, and promised they would celebrate tonight. And he had forgotten that, too.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "Deliah, I'm sorry. With the merger... it completely slipped my mind."

"You have time for 'mergers' on birthdays," Deliah said, her voice trembling slightly, "but not anniversaries."

Jere paused. He thought she was referring to his own birthday coming up in a few weeks, or perhaps hers. He didn't realize she was talking about Irina's. He didn't know she knew.

He sighed, the sound of a patient man dealing with an unreasonable child. "I'll make it up to you. I bought you something. It just... hasn't arrived yet."

Deliah lay back down, turning her back to him. She stared at the wall, her eyes burning. "Don't bother."

Jere stood there for a moment, frustrated by her coldness. He clearly felt he had done enough explaining. He stood up and walked to the bathroom. A moment later, she heard the shower turn on. He was washing away the scent of vanilla. He was washing away the evidence.

Deliah lay in the dark, listening to the water, and for the first time in three years, she didn't feel the urge to go to him. She only felt the urge to run.