Chapter 3

Laurel’s POV

The vibration of the phone seemed to echo against the bare walls of the guest room. I stared at the flashing screen, my heart hammering against my ribs in the aftermath of my solitude.

It wasn't a contact name. It was a new, unlisted number, but the moment I slid my thumb across the glass and pressed it to my ear, the voice on the other end was unmistakable.

"Laurel? Thank God you picked up."

Amanda.

My best friend. My lifeline. The woman who had spent the last eighteen months holding my hand through the darkest corridors of my grief.

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding, my tense shoulders dropping slightly as I sat up on the edge of the guest bed, pulling the discarded camel blazer over my bare shoulders to ward off the sudden chill.

"Amanda," I breathed, my voice still slightly raspy. I cleared my throat quickly, hoping she wouldn't catch the heavy, post-crying texture of it. "Hey. I didn't recognize the number."

"Oh, it's a new work line I had to set up for the boutique," Amanda said, her tone carrying that effortless, vibrant energy she always wore like a shield.

Amanda, thirty-eight, a master stylist, and a whirlwind of chic sophistication.

She is the only person who could look at my five-foot-eleven frame and know exactly how to drape it in fabric that made me feel like a queen rather than a giant. "Listen, darling, I know it's late notice, but I was just thinking about you, I'm finishing up a styling session near the Upper East Side and I wanted to check in. How are things at home? How is Leonard?"

The mention of his name felt like a physical slap. The image of Leonard pulling his wrists from my grip, his eyes cold and transactional, flashed behind my eyelids.

She sensed something was wrong, something was always, Amanda unbothered to know what happened this time went straight to consolations.

"Oh, honey..." Amanda let out a long, pained sigh that sounded so deeply sympathetic it made my throat ache. "I am so, so sorry. You don't deserve this, I’ve told you a thousand times, men process grief so differently. Leonard is just... he’s buried in his work because he doesn't know how to face the pain of what you both lost. He’s running."

"He's not running from the pain, Amanda. He's running from me," I said, a hot tear finally slipping down my cheek, leaving a wet trail in the dim light. "He blames me, he outright said it again, I’m just so lonely, my body feels like a ghost town."

"Listen to me," Amanda said, her voice firm, anchoring me. "You are not a ghost town. You are a stunning, brilliant woman, and we are going to fix this. You need space to breathe. Don't chase him. In fact, tomorrow morning, I'm coming over.”

I wiped my cheek, a faint, fragile smile touching my lips. Amanda always knew how to build me back up when the world stripped me bare. She was my armor.

"Okay," I whispered. "Thank you, Amanda. Truly. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You'll never have to find out, darling," Amanda replied softly. "Get some rest, I'll see you at nine sharp tomorrow."

The line went dead.

I lowered the phone, the silence of the penthouse wrapping around me once more. But for the first time all day, the suffocating weight in my chest felt a fraction lighter, I had Lilibeth. I had Amanda. I wasn't entirely alone on the battlefield.

….

The master bathroom was a sterile expanse of white marble and heated floors, as cold and devoid of life as the rest of the penthouse, I stripped off my underwear, stepped into the massive glass enclosure of the shower, and turned the handle until the water was scalding.

I stood directly beneath the heavy spray, letting the heat punish my skin, desperate to wash away the lingering sensation of my own fingers, the shame of the guest room, and the residual scent of Leonard’s cologne.

As the steam rose, filling the glass box, the wall I had built around my emotions finally began to crumble.

How do I fix this?

The question beat against the inside of my skull in sync with the heavy rhythm of the water, I pressed my forehead against the damp tile, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

There had to be a way, alogical, structural solution. I was an academic; I spent my life analyzing human behavior, diagnosing fractures in interpersonal dynamics, and finding pathways to resolution. Why couldn't I fix my own life?

Maybe we needed to leave New York. A sabbatical. I could take a semester off from Hudson River, force Leonard away from his diversified empire, and drag him to a quiet coastal town in Maine. Just the two of us, away from the corporate galas, the boardroom meetings, and the ghosts of this apartment. If I removed the distractions, he would have no choice but to look at me. To see me.

Or perhaps I needed to stop pushing. Amanda said men grieve differently, maybe my desperation, my hunger for his touch, was choking him. If I became the stoic, distant wife he seemed to want, would the space make him miss me? If I stopped reaching out, would he eventually notice the coldness and reach back?

The thoughts spun in a dizzying, frantic circle, each one more pathetic than the last, I was bargaining with a ghost.

A sob tore from my throat, raw and violent, muffled only by the roar of the shower. I clamped a hand over my mouth, my shoulders shaking as the tears finally came, hot and indistinguishable from the water streaming down my face. I squeezed my eyes shut, a heavy, suffocating weight pressing down on my chest, I wanted to scream, I wanted to smash the marble, to shatter the glass, to let out the two years of silent agony that had been rotting inside my bones.

But I couldn't. I had to swallow the scream.

I couldn't let myself break down completely, because Lilibeth was just down the hall.

Lilibeth. My fierce, observant seventeen-year-old, she already knew too much, already saw the cracks, heard the clipped tones, and carried a heavy, cynical sadness that didn't belong on the shoulders of a teenager, If she heard me crying like this, if she saw her poised, indestructible mother reduced to a sobbing wreck on a shower floor, the illusion would vanish entirely.

She would see the full, terrifying scope of how deeply our family was crumbling, she would know that her father didn't just ignore her mother, but that he loathed her.

I couldn't do that to her. A child shouldn't have to witness the total demolition of her parents' foundation. I had to remain the pillar, the constant, the pristine Professor Leonard, even if the interior of the structure was completely hollowed out by fire.

Forcing my breath to slow, I leaned against the marble wall and let the water rinse the salt from my eyes. I choked down the last of the tears, swallowing the sob until my throat ached with the pressure of it.

By the time I turned off the faucet, the silence returned, heavy and absolute. I wrapped myself in a plush white robe, wiping the steam from the vanity mirror with my palm. My almond-shaped, dark brown eyes were bloodshot, the hourglass symmetry of my body hidden beneath layers of terry cloth.

I stood tall, lifting my chin, watching my expression smooth over into the calm, elegant mask the world expected of me. I was ready for tomorrow.

With hopes that Chicago trip might miraculously change things.

….

The sharp, rhythmic clicking of five-inch stiletto heels echoed down the hallway before the penthouse door even swung open. Amanda didn’t just enter a room; she claimed it.

"House check!" her voice rang out, sassy, lively, and carrying the crisp energy of an Upper East Side morning. She swept into the foyer, a vision of tailored cream trousers, a silk emerald blouse, and oversized sunglasses that she dramatically whipped off the moment she saw me.

"God, Laurel, why is it always a tomb in here? Open a blind. Let the sun see that gorgeous face."

I couldn't help but smile, the heavy residual fog of the night before lifting just a fraction. "Good morning to you too, Amanda."

"Where is the corporate overlord?" she asked, tossing her designer bag onto the console table and immediately walking into the kitchen to inspect my coffee maker. Amanda and Leonard had never gotten along.

They tolerated each other for my sake, but Amanda openly detested his rigid, transactional nature, and Leonard viewed her as a shallow, expensive distraction.

"Did he leave for some business meeting again, or do I need to prepare myself for a lecture on fiscal responsibility before my first espresso?"

"He left last night," I said, leaning against the marble kitchen island.

Amanda stopped, her expressive eyes softening with immediate, genuine sympathy.

She walked over, her small, perfectly manicured hands reaching up to cup my elbows, looking up at my five-foot-eleven frame. "Good, then it’s just us. Because darling, we need to talk about you."

She stepped back, sweeping a critical, professional eye down my body. I was wearing an old, oversized cashmere sweater and structured trousers, my usual camouflage.

"You’re fading, Laurel," Amanda said, her tone shifting into that fierce, protective honesty that made her the best at what she did.

"Look at you, you are a breathtaking, forty-year-old woman with an hourglass figure that twenty-year-olds starve themselves for. But you’re burying yourself in these drab, safe, academic layers, It’s like you’re trying to make yourself invisible so his coldness doesn't hurt as much."

The accuracy of her words made my chest tighten. "I just... I have to look professional for the university, Amanda."

"There is a difference between professional and ancient," Amanda countered with a sassy roll of her shoulders. "Something new needs to begin, right here, right now. And it is going to start with changing this wardrobe. I brought three racks of clothes down in my van. Sleek silks, tailored waistcoats, pencil skirts that actually show you have hips, we are bringing the woman back to life."

I let out a soft laugh, feeling a rare spark of excitement. "Okay, show me what you've got."

"Oh, the clothes are just phase one," Amanda said, a wicked, knowing smirk suddenly spreading across her face. "The talk needs to shift to adult matters, real adult matters."

She unzipped a hidden compartment in her large designer tote and pulled out a small, sleek, unmarked black box, she slid it across the marble countertop toward me like a piece of contraband.

"What is this?" I asked, frowning.

"A little therapeutic intervention," Amanda purred, leaning her elbows on the counter. "Open it."

I hesitated, then lifted the lid of the box. Resting on a bed of black satin was a sleek, soft-silicone device shaped perfectly like a blooming red rose. Its elegant, modern, and entirely unmistakable.

I gasped, my cheeks instantly catching fire as I looked from the device up to my best friend. "Amanda! What on earth…"

"It’s a rose vibrator, darling. Specifically, a clitoral suction toy," Amanda said smoothly, completely unbothered by my shock.

"Don't look at me like I just handed you a grenade, if Leonard is going to starve you, you don't have to starve yourself. You deserve to feel good, Laurel, you deserve to remember what pleasure feels like.”

“We are going for a drink tonight.” She announced.

I tried to counter that by claiming that I cannot leave Lili all by herself in the house, when Lili’s voice cuts in.

“I’m not a baby, mom.”