My Wife Hid Me at Work, Now I Own Her Company novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: Cut the Cake
At Brody's $150,000 birthday party Russell asks his secret wife to take off the matching ring, she refuses, he texts her for a divorce and walks out into a call that his mother's donor heart has come, and the savings account is empty.
My wife spent $150,000 of company money on a birthday party for a man who had worked for us three weeks.
The hotel ballroom was full of white roses and forty people from Draper Logistics holding champagne.
At the center of it, Brody Hartnell stood in a velvet jacket and let everyone toast him.
Allison Draper stood beside him, laughing at something he said.
I stood near the bar with my badge still clipped to my belt.
Nobody at Draper Logistics knew Allison was my wife.
For six years I had taken the train in an hour early so no one would see us arrive together.
For six years she had stood in front of the whole warehouse and shouted my name whenever anyone made a mistake.
She docked my pay when a driver lost a pallet and again when a scanner broke.
Last month my mother went on the transplant list, and I asked Allison for help with the hospital bills.
"Submit it for approval," she said, without looking up from her laptop.
I told myself it was her rule.
She kept work and home apart, and at home she was soft and careful with me.
Two women from accounting stood next to me, watching Allison and Brody.
"They look like they were made for each other," one of them said.
"He posted roses and a ring on his Instagram last week," the other said. "I bet it's happening."
Allison put her hand on Brody's sleeve and held it there too long.
Then I saw the rings.
Each of them wore a plain gold band on the left hand, the same width and the same shine.
Allison had worn hers on a chain under her blouse for six years.
Tonight it was on her finger, in front of everyone, next to his.
I put my badge in my pocket and walked across the room with a glass in my hand.
"Everyone," I said. "A toast to Ms. Draper and Mr. Hartnell."
The room turned and cheered.
Allison's smile went tight.
"Russell, sit down," she said, through her teeth.
I raised the glass higher.
"I only have one question. Why are the two of you wearing the same ring?"
Brody laughed and pushed his glasses up his nose.
"It's a party bit," he said. "Don't read into it, man."
"Then take yours off," I said to Allison.
She did not move.
Nobody in the room said anything.
"It's a joke," she said. "You're embarrassing yourself."
"Take it off, Ms. Draper."
She folded her hand into a fist.
Kayla from HR stepped forward and touched my arm.
"Russell, stop," she said quietly. "Whatever this is, not here."
Kayla was the only person at the company who ever stood up for me.
I thanked her with a nod and kept looking at Allison.
My wife looked at the floor, then at Brody, and then at the door.
She did not take off the ring.
That was my answer.
I took out my phone and typed to her right there, with all of them watching.
*I'm not joking. I want a divorce.*
Her phone buzzed in her clutch.
She read it, and her face hardened.
She typed back, fast.
*Brody is new. I'm helping him fit in. Stop making a scene.*
I did not even need to read it.
It was her answer to everything.
"Brody," she said out loud, in her work voice. "Russell has had a long week. Let's cut the cake."
The room laughed, relieved, and the music came back up.
Brody leaned toward me with a smile meant for the others to see.
"Go home and sleep it off, Russell. Not everyone can handle a good party."
A man from receiving laughed at that, and a few others joined him.
Allison turned her back to me and picked up the cake knife.
She had not asked once what was wrong.
So I set my glass on the bar and walked out.
In the elevator I thought about my mother's hospital room.
She had asked me last Sunday to bring her one thing from home, the string-tied folder from the kitchen drawer with Draper typed on the tab.
It held her old loan papers, the money she lent us when the company started.
She slept with it under her pillow and would not let me throw out a single page.
I had never asked why.
My phone rang before the doors opened.
It was the transplant coordinator at the hospital.
"Mr. Kemper, we have a donor heart for your mother, Frances," she said. "She needs to be in surgery tonight."
My knees nearly gave out.
"Thank God. Yes. Anything."
"The surgical deposit has to be cleared by six tomorrow morning. It's $150,000."
I stood in the lobby and opened our joint savings account, the one I had been filling for two years.
The balance was zero.
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