Page 7 of The Husband I Left

I’d been too nervous about making a good impression to notice the slight edge in his voice.

* * *

The Sinclair estate wasn’t just a house. It was a three story mansion built of pale stone with a set of iron gates that opened themselves, a long tree lined drive, and a fountain out front. I thought I was ready. Nothing could have prepared me for this, however.

“You grew up here?” I whispered as the car pulled up the drive.

“I did.”

“Holy shit.” I stopped my gawking and turned around just in time to see his grin.

I also wasn’t prepared for the butler. An actual butler in an actual suit who opened the door and congratulated Oliver solemnly on his marriage when Oliver introduced me as his wife.

We were led down a confusing maze of hallways and into a sunny dining room, where Oliver’s parents waited for us.

Nancy Sinclair, Oliver’s mother, was tall and golden and looked like she’d stepped out of a magazine in her pale pink dress. She greeted Oliver and kissed his cheek and then gave me a curious look. Oliver introduced me as his wife, and her eyes dropped to the ring on my hand as if seeking confirmation. The blood drained from her face so quickly that for a moment I was convinced she was going to fall over.

The man seated at the head of the table rose slowly. Meeting Thomas Sinclair for the first time, it was like looking at Oliver thirty years in the future. He was broader through the shoulders, and his dark hair was shot through with silver, but he had the same vivid blue eyes and the same presence that fills a room.

Oliver introduced me to his father, and there was something about the way he did it. He seemed not happy exactly. He seemed almost satisfied. I remember looking at him and seeing that his eyes were fixed on his father’s face, taking in every nuance of his reaction.

Whatever it was Oliver was looking for, however, Thomas didn’t seem inclined to give him. He didn’t flinch, didn’t get upset. He studied my face for a moment before nodding once. Then he turned to Oliver, and his expression was tired and just the slightest bit disappointed. But all he said was, “That wasn’t very kind, son.”

Then he turned to me, and his expression softened, and he took my hand in his. “Genevieve. Welcome to the family.”

I thought Thomas was disappointed because of the way we’d gotten married. That we’d run off to Vegas and hadn’t told them. That we hadn’t had a wedding without family present.

Lunch was excruciating. Nobody spoke much. Except me. Because that’s what I do when I’m nervous, I talk. I told story after story about my childhood, my job, my classes, how Oliver and I met. Thomas chuckled at a few. Nancy smiled politely, the way you do at a child who has shown you a picture of a purple blob that they claim is a horse. Oliver didn’t say anything at all.

He ate his lunch and sipped his wine, and every time I glanced at him hoping for help, he was staring into the distance, his mind clearly somewhere else.

The only thing he said came after the plates had been cleared away. “I’ll be bringing Genevieve to the centennial celebration next month,” he announced, draining the rest of his wine. “Make sure she’s seated at the head table with us.”

Nancy looked as if she might faint for the second time that day. “Oliver, darling, are you sure? That’s… there will be hundreds of people. The board. The press. Surely we don’t want to throw her into the deep end quite like that. Perhaps something smaller first, to ease her in—”

“She’ll be fine,” Oliver said dismissively. He didn’t look at her. Or me.

He didn’t say anything else for the rest of the visit.

That night back at the penthouse, I waited for Oliver to join me in bed. Midnight came and went. I found him in his office, staring at the city skyline, a glass of Scotch in hand.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

He didn’t look at me. Just said, “Go to bed, Genny. I’ll be up soon.”

I stood there for a moment, waiting for him to say something, anything. Then he turned and looked at me, and for a second, the ice melted. He crossed the room in two steps, pulled me into his arms, and kissed me so fiercely that I gasped.

He made love to me that night with desperate urgency. His hands were almost rough. His mouth was hungry as he moved over my body. He buried his face in my hair when he came and held onto me so tightly afterward that it almost hurt. I stroked his back in the dark and told myself that this was what it felt like to be needed.

When I woke up the next morning, he was already gone. A note on the nightstand said he had to work late and not to expect him home for dinner. I wandered out to the kitchen, where an older woman introduced herself as Mrs. Stewart, Oliver’s housekeeper. She asked me what I wanted her to make for breakfast.

And so my life as Mrs. Oliver Sinclair began.

Chapter 2

Genny

Oliver told his parents that I would do “just fine” at the Sinclair Foundation centennial celebration. Spoiler alert: I did not do “just fine.”