Chapter 3 - THE NIGHT I LOCKED THE FRONT DOOR
The party ended in fragments.
Some guests left immediately.
Others lingered, pretending to look for their coats while listening to every word.
Camille began crying beside the fountain.
Eleanor called me vindictive.
Hudson demanded that we discuss everything privately.
I agreed.
After the guests had gone.
After the caterers had packed their equipment.
After the last string of lights had been switched off.
At eleven-forty, Hudson followed me into the kitchen.
“What the hell was that?”
I poured myself a glass of water.
“My birthday.”
He stared.
“Don't be clever.”
I looked at him.
“Then don't ask foolish questions.”
He struck the countertop with his palm.
I didn't flinch.
That surprised him.
For years, Hudson had controlled our arguments through volume.
He would raise his voice.
I would lower mine.
He would accuse me of being emotional.
I would apologize for making him angry.
But something had changed.
Perhaps it happened when I saw him touching Camille's stomach.
Perhaps it happened earlier, when I discovered the forged design-transfer documents.
Or perhaps I had simply run out of apologies.
“You can't take my company,” he said.
I looked at him.
“Your company?”
“I built it.”
“We built it.”
He laughed bitterly.
“You drew a few chairs, Serena.”
I stared.
A few chairs.
Five years of work.
Thousands of hours.
The designs that had appeared in hotels from Savannah to Seattle.
Reduced to a few chairs.
I set down my glass.
“Then you shouldn't have any trouble starting another company without them.”
His expression darkened.
“Camille's pregnant.”
“I noticed.”
“I'm responsible for her.”
“Yes.”
“And the baby.”
“Yes.”
He looked confused.
I continued.
“You are responsible for your child. You are not entitled to use my assets to fulfill that responsibility.”
He ran a hand through his hair.
“You're going to ruin me.”
“No.”
I picked up a folder from the counter.
“You've been making decisions without considering their consequences. Now the consequences are arriving.”
He stared at the folder.
“What is that?”
“A letter from my attorney.”
He opened it.
Read the first paragraph.
Then looked up.
“You're filing for divorce?”
“Yes.”
His face changed.
For the first time that evening, he looked frightened.
“Serena, we can fix this.”
I shook my head.
“You can fix your behavior. You can cooperate with the company investigation. You can become a responsible father.”
My voice remained steady.
“But you cannot undo what you've done to me.”
He moved closer.
“Please.”
I looked at him.
For a moment, I remembered the young man who had cried in our kitchen five years earlier.
The man I had loved.
The man I had sacrificed for.
Then I remembered how easily he had introduced another woman's child as the heir to everything I built.
I stepped away.
“Your suitcase is upstairs.”
He stared.
“You packed my things?”
“Yes.”
“This is my house.”
I smiled sadly.
“No, Hudson.”
May you like
I took the house deed from the folder.
“It never was.”
