She Left With His Secret Child And Built Her Own Throne novel · Chapter 2 of 32

Chapter 2: The Locked Drawer

A week on, Lachlan hides in his office with a photograph he cannot stop looking at, tells his furious sister there is someone else, and goes home when the friend in his guest room asks him to come.

Lachlan's POV

It had been a week, and my wife still had not signed.

I had not slept at home since the night I gave her the papers.

I had a sofa in my office and a closet with four shirts in it, and I used both.

Every evening the car offered to drive me home, and every evening I told it I would stay and work.

The Showcase was in two months.

Every year the house showed the rarest stones in the world to four hundred buyers and a room full of cameras.

On my desk lay a necklace sketch from our head designer, a river of pale sapphires.

I had looked at it for twenty minutes and had not seen a single stone.

The drawer under my right hand was locked.

I knew what was in it.

The original had come to the front desk of our building on a Tuesday, in a plain envelope with no stamp.

The doorman said a courier left it.

I never asked which courier, because I did not want to know who else had looked at it first.

I had a print made to go in with the papers, and I locked the original away.

It showed my wife on a hotel terrace with a man's arm around her.

On the back someone had written a day and a time.

I checked the day against her calendar. That afternoon she had told me she was shopping for my anniversary gift.

She came home with nothing in her hands.

I asked her about it once, lightly, and she said the shops were crowded.

She smiled when she said it.

That smile was why I sat in the driveway for three hours.

The door slammed open.

My sister came in without knocking, and my assistant came in behind her, pale and apologizing.

"Sir, I'm sorry," my assistant said. "I told her you were in a meeting."

"It's fine," I said. "Close the door."

Cordelia dropped her bag on my desk and put her hands on her hips.

"Tell me what I heard is a lie," she said.

"Sit down, and I'll tell you what you heard."

She sat. She did not stop glaring.

"I went to see Imogen this morning," she said. "She was in the kitchen in yesterday's clothes."

"And?"

"She told me you gave her divorce papers on your anniversary."

"I did."

"On your anniversary, Lachlan."

"It seemed the right day."

Cordelia stared at me.

"Why?" Her voice shook. "You were happy. I watched you."

"Things change."

"People don't change in two months."

"I loved her," I said. "That wasn't enough."

She shook her head hard.

"I don't believe it. Something happened. Tell me what's wrong, and we'll fix it."

"Fix it?" I said. "Is that what I am to you? Something broken that you carry to a repair shop?"

"That's not what I said."

"You and Imogen have been discussing my marriage without me. Fine. Carry a message for me."

She waited.

"If she hasn't signed by the end of the week, I'll take other steps."

Cordelia went quiet.

"Is there someone else?" she said at last.

I thought about the terrace.

I thought about the arm around her shoulders, and how she had leaned into it.

"Yes," I said.

Cordelia took a short breath.

"Imogen?" she whispered. "I don't believe that. Not for a second."

"I'm not going to argue it with you."

"Then show me what you have."

"No."

"Lachlan."

"I said no."

She stood up. Her eyes were wet and her hands shook.

"You're going to regret this," she said. "You have no idea what you've just done."

"You're wrong," I said. "I'll regret how long I stayed in it."

She picked up her bag and walked out.

She did not slam the door this time.

The office felt larger once she was gone.

I sat with my palm flat on the locked drawer.

I had not told Cordelia the rest.

For five days I had picked up the phone to call my wife and put it down again.

I had read the settlement terms over and over, and every figure in them was too small.

My phone buzzed.

It was Imogen's lawyer. The message said Imogen had received the papers and would reply by Friday, in her own time.

She had never once made me wait before.

I put the phone face down.

It buzzed again almost at once.

It was Daphne, the friend Imogen kept in our guest room.

Daphne had never texted me before this week, and she had written four times since the anniversary.

The new one said, Imogen isn't eating. She went out in the car and wouldn't say where.

Under it she had written, I'm scared to be in the house alone. Can you come?

I told myself I was not going to go.

I told myself I would only collect the rest of my shirts.

I took my coat off the back of the chair and told my assistant to cancel the rest of the day.

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