Betrayed on April Fool’s Day, I abandoned my husband Chapter 08

Betrayed on April Fool’s Day, I abandoned my husband Chapter 08

“Put the price tags higher,” Mom instructed, tapping the edge of the display board. “People won’t buy art if they have to bend over to see what it costs.”

“I’m not trying to sell them, Mom,” I said, adjusting the small white card beneath a charcoal sketch. “This is just a reopening. A welcome back.”

“You need to make a living, Clara.”

“I have money.”

“You have a war chest for a divorce,” she corrected, lowering her voice as a group of locals walked through the front door of the studio. “That isn’t the same thing.”

I ignored her and turned to greet the guests.

The old storefront smelled like fresh paint and sea salt. I had spent the last two weeks scrubbing the floors and repainting the walls. It wasn’t a luxury gallery in the city. The lighting was slightly yellow, and the floorboards creaked. But it was mine.

I wore a faded pair of jeans and a loose linen blouse. No expensive jewelry. No restrictive shapewear.

“Clara! Over here,” Mrs. Gable yelled from the corner. She held a plastic cup of punch, gesturing wildly with her free hand.

I walked over.

“This is Daniel,” Mrs. Gable announced, shoving a tall, broad-shouldered man toward me. “He bought the old Miller property down at the end of the cove.”

“I didn’t buy it,” Daniel corrected, his voice a low, steady rumble. “I inherited it. I’m just fixing the roof.”

I looked at him. Dark hair, slightly windblown. A faded gray henley shirt stretched across his chest. He didn’t have the slick, polished look of the men Jason brought to our dinner parties. He looked like he actually worked for a living.

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

He didn’t offer a polite platitude. Instead, he pointed a calloused finger at the sketch hanging behind me.

“You press entirely too hard on the charcoal right here,” he said.

Mrs. Gable gasped. “Daniel! That is incredibly rude.”

“It’s fine,” I told her. I looked at the drawing. It was a jagged outline of a fishing boat caught in a storm. “It emphasizes the weight of the water.”

“It emphasizes anger,” Daniel countered. He didn’t look away from the paper. “The lines are fractured. You were furious when you drew this.”

I stared at him. He was entirely right. I had drawn that piece the night I found Jason’s offshore bank statements.

“I was having a bad day,” I admitted.

“It makes for good art,” he replied, finally turning his gaze to me. His eyes were a sharp, clear amber. “You hide behind the shading in the other pieces. But this one is honest.”

“You know a lot about art for a guy fixing a roof.”

“I’m an architect,” he said. “I know structure. And that boat is structurally unsound. It❖❖❖s sinking.”

“That’s the point.”

Daniel nodded slowly. “Fair enough.”

Mrs. Gable patted my shoulder. “I’m going to go find your mother. Play nice, you two.” She bustled away, leaving us standing in the corner.

“Did she drag you here?” I asked.

“She ambushed me in the driveway with a plate of muffins,” Daniel said. “Told me I needed to support local businesses. I didn’t have a choice.”

“Well, thank you for fulfilling your neighborly duty.”

“The air in here is suffocating,” he noted, glancing around the crowded room. “Walk down to the beach with me.”

Normally, I would refuse. Jason had trained me to avoid strangers, to keep my head down, to never draw attention.

But Jason wasn’t here.

“Fine,” I agreed. “Five minutes.”

We slipped out the back door of the studio.

The sand swallowed the sound of our footsteps. The ocean breeze whipped at my hair, tossing it across my face. I didn’t care.

“It’s loud tonight,” Daniel said, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“The tide is coming in.”

We walked along the waterline. No awkward small talk. No probing questions about my past.

“Mrs. Gable said you ran a firm in Chicago,” I said, breaking the quiet. “High-rises. Corporate centers.”

“I did.”

“Why leave? Small-town renovations don’t pay the same.”

Daniel stopped walking. He turned to face the dark, rolling waves.

“Because it took me many years to figure out what I actually wanted to hold onto,” he said.

His words hung in the salty air. I stared at his profile. He wasn’t trying to impress me. He wasn’t sizing me up or calculating my worth.

“And what do you want to hold onto?” I asked.

“Things built to last,” Daniel answered. “Not glass towers that look identical to a hundred others. My grandfather built that house with his bare hands. It has a soul.”

“Corporate centers have value,” I challenged gently.

“They have profit margins,” he corrected. “There’s a difference. You spend your whole life climbing a ladder, only to realize the ladder is leaning against the wrong wall.”

I stayed silent. I looked out at the water.

For three years, the ocean only reminded me of Maui. Of a diamond ring, a practiced smile, and a massive lie. Jason had turned the sea into a backdrop for his real estate acquisition.

Tonight, the water just looked like water. Vast. Open. Unclaimed.

“You understand that,” Daniel stated. It wasn’t a question.

“I climbed the wrong ladder,” I admitted.

“Did you jump off, or did you fall?”

“A little bit of both.”

“The landing always hurts,” Daniel noted. “But at least you’re on solid ground now.”

“I forgot how cold the wind gets here,” I murmured, shivering slightly.

Daniel unzipped his jacket. “You can head back. You have guests waiting.”

“They’re fine.”

“You don’t talk much, do you?” Daniel observed.

“Does that bother you?”

“Not at all.” He kicked a piece of driftwood out of the way. “Silence is highly underrated. Most people ruin a perfectly good moment by opening their mouths.”

I smiled. A real, genuine smile.

“You’re very strange,” I told him.

“I’m an architect,” he replied. “We’re all strange.”

My phone buzzed violently in my back pocket.

The sudden vibration shattered the peace of the beach. I pulled the device out.

Maya❖❖❖s name flashed across the screen.

“Take it,” Daniel said, taking a step back to give me space.

I swiped the screen and pressed the phone to my ear. “Maya, I’m at my opening.”

“Are you at the studio right now?” Maya demanded. Her voice shook.

“Yes. Why?”

“Get out of there, Clara.”

I frowned. The wind howled over the speaker. “What are you talking about?”

“Victor just called me,” Maya said, her words rushing out in a panicked blur. “He lost track of Jason’s flight.”

“Jason is in Seattle?”

“No,” Maya corrected. “Victor tracked the tail number. The plane didn’t land in Seattle. It landed at the municipal airstrip twenty miles from your house.”

My blood ran completely cold.

“Clara, listen to me,” Maya urged. “He has your address. He has the studio’s address.”

I turned around. I looked past the dark stretch of sand, up toward the brightly lit windows of my gallery.

A sleek, black town car idled at the curb right outside the front door.

A man in a dark overcoat stepped out of the passenger side. He didn’t go inside. He just stood on the sidewalk, staring directly at the studio entrance.

“Clara?” Maya yelled through the phone. “Are you listening to me?”

Daniel took a step toward me. His amber eyes narrowed as he tracked my gaze up the beach. He saw the car. He saw the man.

“Do you know him?” Daniel asked, his voice dropping an octave.

“He’s already here,” I whispered into the phone.