Chapter 5 - THE FORTY-THIRD FLOOR
The penthouse was worth twenty-eight million dollars.
It contained hand-carved Italian furniture, marble imported from Portugal, a private theater, and windows overlooking half of Chicago.
For years, I considered it proof of success.
Three weeks after Claire left, I couldn't stand being inside it.
Everything reminded me of what I'd destroyed.
Her favorite chair stood empty beside the fireplace.
The dining table was polished but unused.
The kitchen smelled of food nobody wanted.
Even the silence seemed expensive.
I stopped sleeping in our bedroom.
Instead, I lay on the sofa in my study, surrounded by legal documents.
Gregory told me to take time away from work.
Rebecca requested more financial records.
My board demanded explanations.
And every morning, I woke with the same instinct.
Call Claire.
Then I remembered I couldn't.
Not because someone had physically taken my telephone.
Because Claire had made her wishes clear.
She didn't want contact.
I had spent nine years treating her boundaries as negotiable.
Respecting this one was the least I could do.
One Friday evening, I went downstairs to the building's lobby.
Our longtime concierge, Mr. Harris, was preparing to leave.
He had worked at the property for eleven years.
"Good evening, Mr. Morgan."
"Charles."
He smiled politely.
"Can I help you?"
I hesitated.
"Did you know Claire was moving?"
His expression changed.
"Yes, sir."
"Did she seem upset?"
He thought carefully.
"Not that day."
I frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"Mrs. Morgan looked relieved."
The word hurt.
Relieved.
Not heartbroken.
Not desperate.
Relieved.
Charles reached beneath the desk and retrieved a small envelope.
"She asked me to give you this if you ever asked about her."
My pulse accelerated.
Inside was a photograph.
Claire stood beside Charles and three members of the housekeeping staff.
Everyone was smiling.
On the back, she'd written:
Please remember that the people who make your life comfortable have lives of their own.
I stared at the photograph.
Charles cleared his throat.
"Mrs. Morgan always knew my grandchildren's birthdays."
I swallowed.
"Did she?"
"She sent them books every year."
I remembered Claire telling me Charles's wife had been ill.
I hadn't asked what happened afterward.
"How is your wife?"
Charles looked surprised.
"She passed away last winter, sir."
My stomach dropped.
"I'm sorry."
He nodded.
"Mrs. Morgan came to the funeral."
Of course she had.
My wife had built relationships throughout a building I considered my property.
And I had barely noticed the people who lived and worked around me.
I looked at Charles.
"Did I send flowers?"
He hesitated.
"No, sir."
I closed my eyes.
Then I said something I'd almost never said to an employee.
"I'm sorry I wasn't there."
Charles's expression softened.
"Thank you, Mr. Morgan."
That night, I opened an old photograph album.
Claire had kept one for every year of our marriage.
At first, the albums were full.
Holidays.
Birthdays.
Bad haircuts.
Weekend trips.
Our first apartment.
Then the photographs became fewer.
By the seventh year, most pages contained pictures of Claire standing alone.
A museum opening.
A neighborhood restoration project.
A Thanksgiving dinner with friends.
In one photograph, she stood beside a cake with thirty-four candles.
I wasn't there.
My assistant had arranged a gift.
I had been in Singapore.
I remembered telling Claire I'd make it up to her.
I never did.
I closed the album.
Then I did something I hadn't done since college.
I opened a blank notebook.
And began writing down every promise I'd broken.
Not because I thought the list would win Claire back.
Because for the first time, I wanted to stop lying to myself.
By dawn, I'd filled twenty-three pages.
The final entry was simple.
I treated a person who loved me as though she would always be available, regardless of how I behaved.
I stared at the sentence.
Then added another.
I don't want to be that man anymore.
May you like
It was easy to write.
Living it would be much harder.
