Chapter 2: I don't mean nothing to you?

The wall clock blinked 10:00 p.m. in soft red digits, mocking me from across the bedroom. I hadn’t slept. I’d been pacing the Persian rug so long my bare feet left warm prints that vanished almost as fast as my marriage seemed to be doing. 

 The penthouse was too quiet—no clink of Daniel’s ice in a late-night whiskey, no rustle of his briefcase, no “Babe, you still up?” drifting through the hallway. Just the low hum of the city thirty floors below and the thud of my own heartbeat.

 I glanced at my phone for the hundredth time. No missed calls. No texts. No little I’m sorry, Queen GIFs he usually spammed after a fight. Seven hours of radio silence. Daniel Carmichael, the man who once drove through a blizzard to bring me soup when I had the sniffles, had gone full ghost.

 Tonight I would be the bigger person. I snatched the phone off the duvet, thumb hovering over his name like it might bite me, and hit call.

 Ring one. Nothing.

 Ring two. Still nothing.

 By the third call my palms were slick. Daniel was a night owl—always had been. He thrived on 2 a.m. emails and 3 a.m. strategy sessions. So why wasn’t he—

 “Yes…?”

 His face filled the screen, close enough that I could count the tiny stress lines between his brows. The camera angle was weird—tilted, cramped, like he was holding the phone against his chest to hide the room behind him.

 “Danny, I’ve been trying to reach you.” I swallowed the tremor in my throat. “Is everything alright?”

 “It’s ten o’clock, Jayla,” he said, voice flat as the marble island downstairs. “What is it that can’t wait till morning? I’m busy.”

 Busy. The word landed like a slap.

 “Daniel, aren’t we going to talk about what happened today?” My voice cracked despite my best effort. “I’ve been pacing holes in the rug. I know you’re swamped, but we need a conversation.”

 A soft rustle off-camera, then a giggle—light, flirty, unmistakable.

 Babe, aren’t you done yet?

 My blood turned to ice. I knew that voice. Kisha. 

 “Who is that, Daniel?” The question came out sharper than I meant, heartbeat thundering in my ears.

 “Look, Jay,” he sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I’ve had a long day. I do not have the energy for your tantrums tonight. If you’ve got nothing else—”

 Tears spilled before I could stop them, hot tracks racing down my cheeks. “Daniel, how could you do this to me? Five years—five years of marriage—and you’re flaunting your mistress in my face like it’s nothing!”

 He didn’t even blink. “Five years without a child, Jayla. Without a son or daughter I can call my own. Is that marriage?”

 The air left my lungs. “It’s not my fault,” I whispered, swiping at my eyes. The tears blurred his face into a watercolor of the man I used to know.

 “Well, it’s not mine either,” he shot back.

 “Da—Daniel—” I stammered, trying to anchor myself. This had to be a nightmare. My Danny, who once carved J+D forever into a picnic table at our old high-school football field, was weaponizing our infertility?

 “You wanted a conversation,” he said, straightening. The senator mask slid into place—cool, controlled, lethal. “Let’s have it.” He cleared his throat. “We’re opening the marriage.”

 I laughed, but it came out broken. “What?”

 “An open marriage, Jayla. You date. I date. We stay married on paper. Simple.”

 “I know what an open marriage is, Daniel!” The words cracked like a whip. “I just can’t believe you’re serving it up like takeout.”

 “It’s not a request. It’s happening.” His eyes were steel. “No protests.”

 Something wild surged through me—desperation, maybe, or the last ember of the girl who used to make him weak. I stood, letting the silk nightie slide off my shoulders in one fluid motion. The fabric pooled at my feet. I angled the phone down, revealing the lace bra he’d bought me in Paris, the curve of my waist he used to trace with worshipful fingers.

 “Tell me you’re not attracted to this anymore,” I challenged, voice husky. My free hand hooked into the waistband of my panties, tugging just enough to tease. In the old days he’d groan, beg, count the hours till he was home. Tonight? Nothing. Not a flicker.

 “Stop embarrassing yourself, Jayla,” he said, tone colder than the December air outside.

 The fight drained out of me like someone had pulled a plug. I yanked the nightie back on, fingers fumbling with the straps while tears dripped onto the screen. I never thought I’d see the day I’d have to earn my husband’s gaze.

 Daniel had been my high-school sweetheart—stolen kisses behind the bleachers, prom night under fairy lights, a proposal on the rooftop of our first crappy apartment with a ring pop because the real one was still two paychecks away. We’d survived bar exams, campaigns, boardroom wars. I graduated from college after getting a degree in Business Administration, after which I let my own career dreams slip and I became his campaign manager and his house wife. 

 Have we had arguments? Sure. But we always ended in each other’s arms, whispering I choose you until the sun came up.

 This was different.

 “Fine,” I heard myself say, the word tasting like rust. “You want open? We’ll do open.”

 A slow smile curved his mouth—victory, not warmth. “Good girl. Then I suppose you won’t mind if I reintroduce Kisha.”

 The camera panned. There she was, curled on what I now realized was our hotel suite couch, legs tucked under a cashmere throw that used to be mine. She waved, manicured nails glinting, belly softly rounded under a silk camisole.

 My world tilted.

 I forced a smile that felt like glass. “So she’s your girlfriend?”

 Daniel’s hand settled possessively on that gentle swell. “Not just my girlfriend,” he said, eyes locked on mine. “The mother of my unborn child.”