The Final Score: When The Wife Walks Away

Three years.

That was how long I had been Caroline Santos.

Tonight was our anniversary.

I stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the penthouse, smoothing down the emerald silk of my dress. The fabric felt cool against my skin, a stark contrast to the heat rising in my chest.

Bridget, our housekeeper and the only person in this fortress who looked at me with anything resembling pity, adjusted the hem.

"Why do you stay, Mrs. Santos?" she asked quietly.

She knew about the bag.

Hidden in the back of the guest closet, buried behind the heavy winter coats, was a duffel bag. Inside, there was a passport. Stacks of cash. And the access keys to an offshore account.

"The math isn't done yet," I told her.

"Math?" she asked, her brow furrowing in confusion.

"I need the score to hit zero," I said, turning to look at her directly. "If I leave before zero, I'm the villain. I'm the wife who walked away from a difficult man. But if I leave at zero... I'm just surviving."

The intercom buzzed, slicing through the silence.

"Mrs. Santos? Mr. Santos is waiting on the terrace."

I took a steadying breath.

Then, I put on my smile.

The terrace was breathtaking.

Candlelight flickered against the backdrop of the Chicago skyline, mimicking the stars we couldn't see through the city's haze. A private chef had prepared a seven-course meal, the aroma of truffle and roasted herbs drifting in the air.

Blake stood by the railing, holding two glasses of vintage wine.

He looked devastatingly handsome in his tuxedo. The tailored black wool emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, the sharp line of his jaw.

For a moment, just a second, I remembered why I fell in love with him before the marriage was arranged.

He turned and handed me a glass.

"To stability," he said.

Not to love.

Not to us.

To stability.

The alliance between our families. The merger.

"To stability," I echoed, the wine tasting like vinegar on my tongue.

We sat.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a black velvet box.

"Happy anniversary, Caroline."

My heart gave a stupid, hopeful little jump against my ribs.

I reached for it.

Suddenly, his phone rang.

The chime. That distinct, piercing notification.

My hand froze in mid-air.

"Don't," I said.

It was the first time I had ever given him an order.

He looked at me, surprised, his eyebrows lifting slightly.

"It could be an emergency."

"It's always an emergency with her," I said, my voice steady. "Tonight is three years, Blake. Let it go to voicemail."

He hesitated.

His thumb hovered over the screen, caught between habit and duty.

Then, slowly, he flipped the phone over.

"You're right," he said. "Tonight is about us."

He pushed the velvet box toward me across the white tablecloth.

"Open it."

I lifted the lid.

Diamond drop earrings glittered under the candlelight.

Exquisite.

Tasteful.

And utterly cold.

"They're beautiful," I said.

"They reminded me of your eyes," he said. "Sharp. Clear."

Suddenly, a commotion at the terrace doors made us both turn.

Security was trying to stop someone, voices raised in protest.

"Let me through! I need to see him!"

Ariana burst onto the terrace.

She was wearing a trench coat over pajamas, her hair wild and tangled around her face.

And pinned to her lapel was the Santos Family Brooch.

The antique silver rose that was supposed to belong to the Underboss's wife. My grandmother's rose.

Blake stood up immediately, his chair scraping back.

"Ariana? What's wrong?"

She rushed past me, knocking into the table. Wine sloshed onto the white tablecloth, staining it like fresh blood.

"I can't breathe, Blake," she gasped, clutching her chest. "The fire... I keep smelling smoke. I'm having a panic attack."

She collapsed into his arms.

He caught her, holding her tight, anchoring her weight against him.

"Shh, breathe," he instructed, slipping instantly into doctor mode. "Count with me. One, two..."

I sat there, the velvet box still open in my hand.

"She's wearing my grandmother's brooch," I said calmly.

Blake didn't hear me.

He was stroking her hair.

"I'm sorry," Ariana sobbed into his tuxedo, muffling her voice against the expensive fabric. "I didn't know where else to go. You're the only one who makes it stop."

She looked up at him, tears streaming down her face.

Then, her gaze shifted. She looked at the box in my hand.

"Oh," she sniffled. "Is that... for me?"

She reached out and touched the diamonds with a trembling finger.

"They're so sparkly. Like the ones I lost in the fire."

Blake looked at her tear-stained face.

Then he looked at me.

He looked at the earrings.

"Caroline doesn't even have her ears pierced," Ariana lied, her voice innocent. "Do you, Caroline?"

I did.

Blake knew I did.

But Blake saw a damsel in distress, and he saw a wife who was 'tough.' He saw a problem he could solve versus a woman who didn't need him.

"Actually," Blake said, his voice tight. "These might be too heavy for Caroline. She prefers... simpler things."

He took the box from my hand.

He gently closed my fingers over empty air.

"Here," he said to Ariana, handing her the box. "To help you feel better. A get-well gift."

Ariana squealed, holding the diamonds to her ears, her panic vanishing instantly.

"Thank you, Blake! You saved me again."

I stood up.

My chair scraped loudly against the stone floor, the sound harsh in the night air.

"I'm going to the powder room," I said.

Neither of them looked at me.

I walked into the bathroom and locked the door with a decisive click.

I stared at myself in the mirror.

The emerald dress looked like a costume now.

I pulled out the notebook I kept hidden in the vanity.

Minus fifteen points.

Regifted my dignity.

Score: 30.