The Rejected Live-in Husband Returns

Part IV: A Question

The morning light that streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Coote mansion was unforgiving. It illuminated every speck of dust on the grand piano, gleamed off the sterile marble floors, and exposed the weary lines on Leo’s face as he sat on the oversized living room sofa. He hadn’t slept. 

The video played on a loop behind his eyes, a silent, brutal film that had stolen the night from him. The lavish dinner he’d prepared sat congealed and forgotten in the dinning table, a monument to his own foolish hope.

The click of the front door was sharp in the morning quiet. Amelia stood there, silhouetted against the light. She looked every bit the corporate queen returning from her conquest, still wearing the powerful, tailored dress from the night before, though it was now slightly rumpled. 

In her hand, she carried her heels, and there was a lingering aura of champagne and expensive cigar smoke that clung to her. 

She didn’t look at him, not really. Her eyes scanned the room, perhaps expecting to see the mess of a party, or at least some sign of his subservient welcome. 

Seeing nothing but his still, silent form on the sofa, her brow furrowed in irritation.

“Leo,” she commanded, her voice husky from a night of talking and laughing. She dropped her shoes by the door with a clatter and walked towards him, massaging her temples. 

“My head is splitting. The champagne last night was relentless. Come on, give me a shoulder massage. You have no idea the pressure I’ve been under.”

She stopped in front of him, expectant. When he didn’t move, didn’t even look up, her irritation flared. 

She let out an exasperated sigh. “Honestly, are you deaf? I’ve had the most exhausting and important night of my life, and I can’t even get a simple massage?”

This is it, she thought, a bitter monologue running through her mind. This is the difference. Julian would have already had a glass of water and aspirin waiting. He’d know exactly what to say, how to make me feel better.

Finally, Leo lifted his head. His eyes were not angry, but deeply tired, hollowed out from a long vigil. They searched her face, looking for a trace of guilt, of remorse, of anything that might match the cataclysm happening inside him.

“Where were you last night, Amelia?” he asked. His voice was quiet, but it cut through the room’s silence like a blade. “I called you. Four times. Your phone was off.”

The directness of the question caught her off guard. A flicker of guilt, sharp and unwelcome, pricked at her conscience. But it was quickly smothered by a wave of defensive anger. 

How dare he? After the pinnacle of her career, he was interrogating her like a suspicious parent?

“What is this, an inquisition?” she snapped, crossing her arms. “I was at the company banquet, obviously. My phone died. There were hundreds of people, investors, reporters… I had a few drinks, I celebrated. Is that a crime now? Do I need to report my every move to you?”

Leo watched her, the practiced deflection, the anger meant to overshadow the evasion. He felt a profound sadness settle over him, heavier than any anger. 

He sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to carry the weight of all their silent years. Slowly, he reached into the pocket of his sweatpants and pulled out his phone.

“I saw a video,” he said, his tone still dangerously calm. “I needed to be sure it wasn’t some kind of smear campaign from a competitor. I spent all night hoping it was fake.”

He tapped the screen and held it out to her. The video played. The ballroom, the cheers, Julian’s kiss, the knee, the ring. The whole sordid, triumphant scene.

Amelia’s face went from annoyed to ashen white. Her breath hitched. For a second, she was frozen, her mind racing, scrambling for purchase. Then, pure, unadulterated panic took over. Instead of confession, she chose attack. It was her oldest, most reliable defense mechanism.

With a sudden, violent swing of her arm, she slapped the phone out of his hand. It clattered against the marble floor, the screen cracking i

nto a spiderweb of lines.

“How dare you!”