What the Light Forgets

When Henry Shepherd peeled crab for his young assistant, Tamara Lee, who’d "lost her appetite", everyone at the table glanced awkwardly at me.

Just a minute earlier, I’d proudly told the investors, "His hands are insured for millions. He won’t even hold a dinner knife to protect them."

To salvage the situation, I downed three shots of whisky in one go. The metallic tang of blood rose in my throat, but I forced it down.

Before tensions could ease, Henry announced that he was leaving early to take Tamara to eat what she wanted.

He even fought an investor over it.

I took the slap meant for him.

I paid the compensation.

Later, when I reached out to check if his hands were injured, he said coldly, "If you weren’t so money-hungry, fawning over those nouveau riche pigs, she wouldn’t have gone hungry.

"Stay here. If you come along, you’ll ruin our appetites."

Tamara blinked up at me with her doe eyes.

"I’m sorry, Mrs. Shepherd. If I’d known Mr. Shepherd would worry, I’d have endured my hunger silently."

Henry ruffled her hair.

"You did nothing wrong. You’re just too pure. It’s people like her"—he shot me a look—" who’d rather vomit blood than stop groveling."

My body went numb.

So he had seen me choking back blood—he just didn’t care.

I stood in the cold for thirty minutes, then I called my lawyer.

"Draft the divorce papers."