The wife he betrayed bought his empire

Grace's POV

 I set the table for two at six o'clock.

I brought out the good plates from our wedding and placed them carefully on the table. I lit two white candles and moved them until they stood at the same height. I even wore the blue dress Victor once told me he loved.

I wanted tonight to be special.

Perhaps that was foolish of me. But after nine years of marriage, I still wanted my husband to look at me the way he used to.

The roast was in the oven. The kitchen smelled of rosemary and butter. It was his favorite meal, and I had been cooking since noon. My feet hurt. I did not mind.

Beside his plate I placed a small gift box. Inside was a frame, and inside the frame was the first check from Midwest Grocers.

Nine years ago, Victor was in bed with a fever on the morning of the biggest meeting of his life. I went in his place. My hands shook so badly that I hid them under the table. But I won that client, and it saved his company.

That night he kissed my hands and said, "I could never do this without you, Grace."

I had kept that check ever since. I hoped that when he saw it, he would remember who we used to be.

At six forty, my phone buzzed.

Board meeting is running late. Do not wait for me.

That was all. No "happy anniversary." No "sorry."

I read it twice. Then I typed, Of course. I will keep dinner warm.

I almost deleted the word warm. It sounded so small. But I sent it.

It is only a meeting, I told myself. He works so hard. He is doing it for us.

I had said those words to myself so many times that I could say them in my sleep.

This morning I had asked him, as gently as I could, "Do you know what day it is?"

Victor was fixing his tie in the mirror. He did not turn around. "Grace, I have a lot on my mind."

"It is a special day."

"Every day is special when you run a company." He laughed at his own joke. "Please do not start. I have no time for this."

So I did not start. I never did.

At seven, I turned the oven down.

At eight, I blew out one candle to save it. Every time headlights passed the window, I looked up. Every time, they drove on.

I thought about our first anniversary. We had no money then. Victor came home with one red flower from a gas station and a card he wrote himself. It said, You are the smartest person I know. Thank you for believing in me.

I still kept that card in a drawer.

When had he stopped writing cards? I tried to remember, and I could not. That frightened me more than the empty chair.

At half past eight, I took the old tablet from the kitchen drawer. It still showed the shared calendar for Holloway Freight. I had helped build that calendar years ago. I knew every board date by heart.

I scrolled to today.

There was no board meeting.

My heart sank and jumped at the same time.

Maybe it was a special meeting. Maybe someone forgot to add it. These things happened. I told myself so three times, and each time the words sounded weaker.

At nine, my phone rang. For one bright second I thought it was him. But the screen said Margaret.

"Where is Victor?" my mother-in-law asked. She did not say hello. She never did.

"He is at a board meeting."

"Of course he is. He works so hard." Her voice changed, the way it always did when she turned to me. "And what are you doing, Grace?"

"I made dinner. It is our anniversary."

"Is it?" She said it as if I had told her the price of eggs. "Well, do not make a fuss. A man in Victor's position cannot be home every night. And do not forget, my birthday dinner is tomorrow. Cook the lamb properly this time. Last year it was dry."

"I will try."

"Do more than try, dear."

The line went dead.

I stood in my quiet kitchen with the phone in my hand. Nine years, and she had never once said happy anniversary.

She is just old-fashioned, I told myself. She does not mean it.

But I remembered the night she asked me to refill her water glass at my own dinner table. She did not even look at me when she said it. I had put down my fork and gone to the kitchen like a maid. Victor had watched me go, and he said nothing.

And I remembered last month, at his business dinner, when I mentioned a number about fuel costs. Victor put his hand on my arm and smiled at his guests. "My wife likes to play with figures," he said.

Everyone laughed.

The number was right. I had built the model that used it.

I laughed too, because that was easier than crying.

At ten, I called him. It rang until the voicemail came on.

"Hi, it is me," I said. My voice sounded thin. "I just wanted to say happy anniversary. Come home when you can."

I hung up and hated myself a little.

I thought about Camille Ford, his secretary. She had come to dinner last Sunday. She was twenty-nine, bright and polite. She praised my roast and asked for the recipe. Victor laughed more that night than he had in months.

I noticed. I told myself I was glad he had someone who made him laugh.

At eleven, I covered the roast with foil. I sat down and ate a small piece of bread. My stomach was too tight for more.

I almost did not call again. Part of me wanted to be wrong so badly that I was afraid to find out.

At midnight, the last candle burned out.

The kitchen grew dark. Only the light over the stove still glowed.

"He fell asleep at his desk," I whispered. "That is all."

I pressed call.

It rang once. Twice. Three times.

Then someone answered.

"Hello, Victor's phone."

It was a woman's voice, soft and sweet and very awake.

My mouth went dry. "Who is this?"

"Oh!" She gave a light laugh. "Grace? It is Camille."

"Why do you have my husband's phone?"

"He left it on the desk. We are still going over the quarter reports." Her voice was calm. Too calm. "It has been a very long night. I will tell him you called, Mrs. Holloway."

"It is midnight," I said.

"Goodnight, Grace."

The line went silent.

I did not move. The clock ticked on the wall. The roast went cold under its foil. The little gift box sat unopened beside an empty plate.

She had called me Mrs. Holloway, but she had said it like a joke.

And just before the call ended, I had heard something behind her voice. Soft music. The small clink of a glass.

Music, in an office, at midnight.

I told myself there was a reason. I told myself I was tired and silly and imagining things. I told myself so many things.

For nine years, I had told myself that nothing was wrong.

I sat in the dark with my cold dinner in front of me. For the first time, the words would not come.