The Perfect Husband's Darkest Secret novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: The Glass Lobby

Dalton arrives at the law firm with flowers and a perfect smile, Ansel puts down the signed transfer, and Dalton reveals a judge has already ruled on Poppy.

Dalton reached the law firm forty minutes later, carrying white roses and his best smile.

I waited for him in the glass lobby on the thirty-first floor.

Two receptionists and six clients sat within earshot.

He crossed the carpet with both arms already open.

"Em, thank God," he said. "I have been out of my mind. Whatever this is, we can fix it."

He said it loudly enough for the whole lobby to hear.

A woman in the waiting area smiled at him warmly.

That was his talent.

He could make any room think he was the one being wronged.

I did not take the roses.

I did not step into his arms.

"Hello, Dalton," I said.

His smile held, but his eyes moved over my face and checked every line of it.

For ninety days he had been looking at a woman on a screen who nodded and said she was tired.

I was not tired anymore.

"You emptied the house," he said, softer. "You took Poppy and you did not even leave a number."

"I left a letter."

"That is not a letter, Em. That is a tantrum."

His voice stayed gentle.

The receptionists looked down at their desks.

"Whatever Camille told you," he said, "I can explain."

The name hung in the lobby.

"I never wrote a name," I said.

He stopped.

It was a small stop, just half a breath.

Then he laughed and rubbed his forehead.

"You wrote about another woman. I assumed. Who else would you mean?"

I said nothing.

For seven years I had talked to this man about everything, and tonight he would hear only what I chose to give him.

The elevator opened behind him.

A man in a gray flannel shirt stepped out, with a leather folder under one arm and sawdust still on his boots.

He was tall and broad, and he looked at no one but me.

Dalton turned around.

The color left his face in a slow line from forehead to chin.

"Thurber," he said.

"Hello, Dalton," the man answered. "It's been six years."

He crossed the lobby, set the folder on the reception desk and flipped it open to the last page.

"Twenty-two percent of Reeve Harbor," he said. "Signed, notarized and wired this morning. Every share I own belongs to Mrs. Reeve."

Ansel Thurber had built that company with Dalton's father before Dalton ever wore a suit.

Six years ago the board had voted him out.

I had been told he left because he wanted to.

Dalton laughed again, but the sound cracked in the middle.

"You sold her your stock to spite me," he said. "She can't vote it. Her father's trust has a proxy, and I hold the proxy."

"Had," my lawyer said from the doorway.

She walked up to the desk with a single page in her hand.

"Your wife revoked that proxy ninety days ago, the morning after you left for Singapore. It was filed and notarized. Her twenty-nine percent has been hers to vote ever since."

She put the page in front of him.

"Twenty-nine and twenty-two," she said. "Fifty-one."

Dalton read the page.

He read it a second time.

Then he looked up at me, and the gentle husband was gone.

His jaw was tight. His eyes were flat.

"You small, ungrateful little fool," he said under his breath, so only I could hear. "Do you have any idea what you just started?"

"Yes," I said. "I started it ninety days ago."

He stepped closer and reached for my wrist.

"Touch me in front of these people," I said, "and they will remember it."

His hand stopped an inch from my sleeve.

Ansel moved half a step, and Dalton took his hand back.

The roses sagged in his hand.

Then, slowly, the mask came back on.

He set the flowers on the desk, adjusted his cuff and spoke to the whole room again in his warm voice.

"My wife is unwell," he said. "I think everyone here can see that. She has not been herself for months."

A client in the waiting area looked at me with pity.

I felt my face go cold.

"I did not want to do this in public," Dalton said. "But my attorney has kept a petition ready for months, in case you ever hurt yourself or our daughter. I sent it from the car, the minute I read your note."

"Sent what?" my lawyer asked.

"An emergency petition for my daughter's safety." He tilted his head toward me, almost kind. "The duty judge signed it on the phone, Em. Poppy goes into protective custody until my wife is evaluated."

My stomach dropped.

"You don't know where she is," I said.

"No," Dalton said. "But the court does not need me to."

My phone buzzed in my hand.

It was the neighbor at the lake house, where Poppy was making pancakes.

*Two police cars just pulled up at the gate. They are asking for you.*

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