The Neglected Wife's Secret: Genius Designer Aria

The penthouse was silent. It was a sprawling, multi-million dollar silence that felt more oppressive than peaceful. Felicity kicked off her heels near the door, leaving them where they fell-one upright, one tipped on its side. It was a small act of rebellion in a house where everything had its place.

She walked into the kitchen. The refrigerator was a stainless steel monolith filled with organic kale, free-range eggs, and expensive juices she rarely drank. She pulled out ingredients mechanically. Tonight was the anniversary. She would cook his favorite meal. Beef Wellington. It was complex, time-consuming, and required patience. Maybe if she focused on the puff pastry, she wouldn't think about Jenilee Shaw at an OB-GYN clinic.

She chopped mushrooms for the duxelles. The rhythmic thud-thud-thud of the knife against the wooden board calmed her racing mind.

Hours passed. The sun set, turning the skyline outside the floor-to-ceiling windows into a glittering grid of lights. The Beef Wellington sat on the marble counter, cooling. The salad wilted.

The clock on the microwave read 11:04 PM.

The elevator dinged.

Felicity didn't move from her spot by the island. She heard his footsteps-heavy, tired. Garold Chandler walked into the kitchen. He was loosening his tie, pulling the silk knot free with a jerk of his hand. He smelled of scotch and a perfume that was floral and cloying. Not hers.

He glanced at the food on the counter. His expression didn't change. There was no guilt, no apology. Just a weary sort of annoyance.

"You're still up," he said.

"I made dinner," Felicity said softly. "I can reheat it."

Garold waved a hand, dismissing the hours of work with a single gesture. "I ate."

He walked past her, heading toward the master bedroom. Felicity watched his back. The broad shoulders, the tailored suit that cost more than most people's cars. Her heart pounded against her ribs, a frantic, bird-like fluttering.

She followed him.

He was unbuttoning his shirt, tossing it onto the armchair. His back was to her.

"Did you see the news today?" she asked.

Garold paused. She saw the muscles in his back tense, locking up. Then he resumed unbuttoning his cuffs.

"Gossip is for the idle, Felicity. I don't have time for it."

She walked up behind him. She wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek against the warmth of his back. It was a desperate move. She knew it. She needed to feel something real, something that wasn't the cold leather of a waiting room chair.

"Do you want children, Garold?" she whispered.

He went rigid.

His hands came down over hers, not to hold them, but to pry them apart. He pulled her arms from his waist with firm, undeniable force. He turned around.

He looked down at her. His eyes were the color of steel, and just as hard. There was no affection in them. Not even a flicker.

"Not with you," he said.

The words didn't have any heat. They were factual. Dry.

Felicity took a step back, as if he had physically shoved her. The air left her lungs.

Garold turned away and walked into the bathroom. The door clicked shut. A moment later, the sound of the shower started-a rush of water drowning out the sound of her own ragged breathing.

She stared at the closed door. The finality of it settled over her like a shroud. Not with you.

She turned and walked back to the kitchen. The Beef Wellington looked congealed and sad. She picked up the plate and scraped the entire meal into the trash. The heavy ceramic thudded against the side of the bin.

She poured herself a glass of water from the tap. Her hand was steady now. The trembling had stopped.

She walked past the master bedroom. She didn't go in. instead, she went down the hall to the guest bedroom. She went inside and closed the door.

She turned the lock. The click was loud in the quiet apartment.