Working Late

Chapter 9: Working Late

The Tribeca townhouse had become my sanctuary. I arrived early the next morning, before the contractors, carrying a large coffee and my leather sketchbook. The necklace from Khalid still sat in its velvet box on my vanity back at the penthouse. I hadn’t worn it. I couldn’t.

I needed this — the smell of fresh plaster, the rhythmic sound of hammers and saws, the satisfaction of watching my vision slowly come to life. Here, I wasn’t the neglected wife. I was Evelyn Langford, lead designer, the woman making decisions that mattered.

“Good morning, team,” I called out as the crew began filing in. “Let’s focus on the primary bedroom suite today. I want those recessed lighting fixtures installed exactly as per the revised plans.”

Lila, my assistant, hurried in behind me with her tablet, her young face bright with enthusiasm. “The clients loved the updated renderings you sent last night. They said the blend of modern minimalism with those rich cultural textures is ‘genius.’ One of them even mentioned recommending you to their friends in Hudson Yards.”

I allowed myself a small, genuine smile. “That’s great to hear. Let’s make sure we earn it.”

For the next several hours, I lost myself in the work. I adjusted fabric swatches against the walls, climbed ladders to check ceiling heights, and discussed custom furniture pieces with suppliers over the phone. Every decision felt like reclaiming a piece of myself I had surrendered years ago.

By midday, my phone buzzed with a message from Marcus Hale:

**Marcus:** Early feedback from the industry group I showed your concepts to — they’re raving. One editor from *New York Magazine* wants to schedule that photoshoot sooner than planned. You’re making waves, Evelyn.

The praise should have filled me with joy. Instead, it mixed with a quiet sadness. How long had I denied myself this? How many opportunities had I turned down to be available for a husband who rarely noticed when I was there?

I worked through lunch, sketching new ideas for the living area while eating a quick salad at the makeshift desk. My hands moved with purpose, bold lines and thoughtful details flowing onto the paper. For the first time in months, my mind wasn’t consumed with wondering where Khalid was, or whether Natasha was with him.

“Evelyn, you have to see this,” Lila said, rushing over with her tablet. She showed me an internal design forum post where a respected architect had shared photos of our progress and praised the “fresh, culturally rich approach” to luxury renovation.

Comments poured in:

*“This is next level.”*

*“Evelyn Langford is a name to watch.”*

*“Finally, someone bringing real soul to Manhattan projects.”*

Tears pricked my eyes. Not from sadness this time, but from a deep, long-forgotten sense of validation.

“Thank you, Lila,” I whispered. “Keep pushing the schedule. I want this project to be perfect.”

As the afternoon wore on, my phone stayed mostly silent from Khalid. No check-in messages. No “How’s your day?” Only a brief note from Temi asking how I was holding up after the gala. I replied with a simple *Working. Feeling stronger.*

By 7 PM, most of the crew had left. I stayed behind, the townhouse quiet except for the soft hum of the city outside. I walked through the space with a flashlight, making final notes for the next day. The transformation was breathtaking. This wasn’t just a job — it was proof that I could stand on my own.

My phone finally rang as I was locking up. Khalid.

“Hey,” I answered, stepping out onto the sidewalk. The evening air was cool against my skin.

“You’re still at the site?” His voice sounded tired. “It’s late, Evelyn. Come home.”

“I’m heading back now,” I said, hailing a cab. “How was your day?”

“Long. The merger negotiations are brutal. Natasha had some good insights though—” He caught himself. “Never mind. I’ll see you soon.”

The mention of her name, even casually, stung. I ended the call quickly and rode home in silence, watching the lights of Manhattan blur past.

---

The penthouse was dimly lit when I arrived. I kicked off my shoes in the foyer and headed toward the bedroom, craving a hot shower and my sketchbook. But Khalid was already home, standing in the living room with a glass of whiskey in his hand.

He turned when he heard me. His tie was loosened, his shirt sleeves rolled up. And then it hit me — the unmistakable floral scent of Natasha’s perfume, clinging to his clothes.

My steps faltered.

“You’re back,” he said, setting the glass down. He crossed the room and pulled me into his arms before I could react. “I missed you today.”

His lips found mine, urgent and hungry. For a split second, I responded — old habits, old love. His hands slid down my back, pulling me closer. The familiar warmth of his body against mine stirred something deep inside me.

But the scent of her perfume was overwhelming. It filled my nostrils, a cruel reminder that even when he came home to me, parts of him were still with her.

I pulled away gently but firmly. “Khalid… you smell like her.”

He froze, then sighed heavily. “It’s just from the office. We had back-to-back meetings. Nothing happened, Evelyn.”

“Nothing ever ‘happens,’ according to you,” I said, stepping back. My voice was quiet but laced with exhaustion. “Yet her perfume is on your shirt. Again.”

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration clear on his face. “I’m trying here. I came home early. I want to be with my wife tonight.”

He reached for me again, his touch more insistent this time. His lips brushed my neck, his hands sliding under my blouse. Part of me wanted to give in — to feel wanted, even if it was fleeting. But another, stronger part of me recoiled.

I placed my hands on his chest and pushed him back gently. “Not like this. Not when you still carry her scent on you.”

Khalid’s eyes darkened with a mix of desire and irritation. “You’re pushing me away every time I try to get close. How are we supposed to fix this if you won’t even let me touch you?”

“Because touching isn’t fixing anything,” I whispered, tears threatening to fall. “I need more than physical closeness, Khalid. I need to feel like I matter to you beyond these walls.”

He stared at me for a long moment, the weight of my words hanging between us. Then he stepped back, nodding slowly.

“I understand,” he said, though his voice was tight. “I’ll shower and we can talk.”

As he walked toward the bathroom, the faint trace of Natasha’s perfume lingered in the air like a ghost.

I sank onto the couch, staring at the glittering Manhattan skyline through the windows. My phone buzzed with another message from Marcus about the upcoming photoshoot.

For the first time, I didn’t feel guilty for being excited about it.

Work had become my escape. My safe place. And as Khalid’s shower ran in the background, I realized I was starting to prefer the peace I found in my designs over the constant pain waiting for me at home.