Chapter 19: I just never cared.

Mason

I stood outside her bedroom door at midnight, my fist hovering an inch from the dark wood.

I wanted to knock. I wanted to drag her out into the hallway, look her in the eyes, and ask her everything. Why didn't you defend yourself? How did you survive six years of my cold, calculated accusations without screaming in my face? How did you carry all of it alone?

My hand trembled in the dim hallway light.

I couldn't do it. I was terrified.

Catherine was so distant these days, moving through the house like a cool breeze that touched nothing and belonged to no one. If I confronted her now with this sudden, pathetic late-night revelation, she would only look at me with that calm, hollow pity she had given me in the kitchen. She wouldn't yell. She wouldn't cry. She would just close the door in my face.

I pulled my hand back, turned around, and walked into my study.

If I couldn't ask her, I would read every line of her life myself.

First thing Monday morning, I pulled up Catherine’s profile from the L&T human resources database, along with six years of her bank statements and internal personnel logs.

What I found wrecked whatever was left of my composure.

Before she ever crossed paths with me, Catherine Bell had been brilliant. She had graduated top of her class at State University, securing one of only three highly competitive internship spots at H&T Logistics out of four hundred applicants. Her early performance evaluations were stellar—her supervisors described her as sharp, ridiculously hardworking, and relentlessly dedicated.

Then came the pregnancy.

I scrolled down to her personnel logs from six years ago. Despite severe morning sickness, despite the sudden, brutal storm of media attention, her output never dropped. Her project accuracy remained at ninety-eight percent.

Then I opened her payroll records against our joint expense ledger from those years.

My breath caught in my chest.

Her entry-level salary had been modest—barely seventy thousand a year. And out of that small, fixed income, she had paid me fifty percent of everything. Half the bills for the house. Half the hospital bill for the twins' delivery. Half the nanny fees on the rare occasions we hired one, half the groceries, half the diapers, half the clothes.

There were months where, after transferring her half to my central billing account, she had less than four hundred dollars left in her personal account to last the entire month.

Four hundred dollars.

While I sat on a net worth of billions, reviewing spreadsheets over ninety-dollar steaks, my wife was calculating whether she could afford a new pair of shoes for work.

And she had never missed a single payment. Not once.

"Mr. Blake?"

Miller’s voice cut through the quiet room as he slid another folder onto my desk. "You asked for her recent promotional history files."

I picked up the document, my eyes scanning the text.

Four years ago, Catherine’s department supervisor had strongly recommended her for a promotion to Senior Operations Manager—a massive step up that came with a six-figure salary jump and an executive track.

She had declined it.

I remembered that week four years ago. I had seen the decline letter sitting on the dining table. I had scoffed to myself, internally labeling her lazy, thinking she was content to sit on her entry-level role, playing the soft housewife while relying on my family name to secure her future.

I scrolled down to the present day's file.

Last week, her name appeared right at the top of the short-list for the exact same position: Senior Operations Manager. Her current director had submitted her application with a glowing recommendation, and she had formally accepted the nomination.

I stared at the screen, my brow furrowing in deep confusion.

"Miller," I said, my voice hoarse as I looked up. "Why is she taking it now?"

Miller paused, shifting his weight. "Sir?"

"Four years ago, she turned down the exact same role," I said, pointing at the screen, my heart beating with a strange, nervous energy. "I thought... I thought she didn't want the workload. But now she's going after it aggressively. Did she always want the position?"

Miller looked down at the floor for a brief moment before meeting my eyes. His expression was heavy with a quiet, undeniable truth.

"Everyone in her department knew why she declined it back then, Mr. Blake," Miller said softly.

"Why?" I demanded, leaning forward. "Why did she decline it?"

"Because back then, the twins were barely one year old," Miller said, his tone perfectly even, yet cutting straight to the bone. "A senior management role required mandatory sixty-hour work weeks and quarterly travel to regional distribution centers. Mrs. Blake couldn't take the risk."

The room seemed to tilt slightly.

"She was alone," Miller continued, his voice relentless in its quiet clarity. "Everyone knew she had no help at home and couldn't afford to hire any help. If she took the promotion, she wouldn't be able to balance the kids with her workload."

I sat frozen, the paper shaking slightly between my fingers.

"And now?" I rasped out. "Why now?"

"It seems she has more time now," Miller replied simply. "She was very eager when director Hale mentioned it. She's even taking on more clients these days. Everyone is actually relieved on her team."

I dropped the folder onto the desk.

Six years.

While I'd thought she was freeloading. She was quietly drowning, holding our entire family together, sacrificing her career, her pride, and her youth—just so our children could have a mother who was actually there.

I leaned back in my leather chair, covering my mouth with a trembling hand.

"Miller..." My voice was barely a whisper. "Why did I never think of learning more about her?"

Miller didn't offer a reply.

And I didn't expect an answer either.

Because I already knew it.

I had never asked about her salary. I had never asked about her work. I had never asked why she looked so exhausted every night when I walked past her in the hallway.

I just never cared.