Separated Rooms for Three Years, He Panicked After I Moved Out Chapter 01

Separated Rooms for Three Years, He Panicked After I Moved Out Chapter 01

After we got married, Briar and I always slept in separate rooms.

At first, I asked if I could share a room with him.

He refused.

“No, Marceline. Chloe would be upset.”

“If it weren’t for this marriage, she and I wouldn’t be apart. So let’s just keep things the way they are.”

Chloe was his first love.

I stood there for a beat before I managed a quiet, “Okay.”

Later, I came to terms with it. This marriage had always been a transaction. My family needed an infusion of cash to solve a liquidity crisis. His company needed my family’s connections to navigate a troublesome lawsuit.

Once it was all over, we were supposed to walk away.

After that, I never brought it up again.

For the next three years, whenever he appeared in public, Chloe was on his arm. She was there for Thanksgiving dinner, there for his company’s annual gala, and there on my own mother’s birthday.

Everyone could see who he was really with.

Now, both our families’ problems had been resolved.

It was time for me to leave.

…

I sat in the study and read through the divorce papers one last time.

The terms were printed in stark black and white.

In the section for division of assets, I had asked for nothing.

The house he’d bought before the marriage would remain his. The cars would remain his. The shares in Pierce Group had nothing to do with me.

I would take only my personal savings.

I signed my name on the documents.

Marceline Bennett.

Three years ago, I’d thought that even a marriage with such a disastrous beginning could be salvaged, that we could build something real over time.

Looking back, I saw how naive I’d been.

I slipped the papers into a manila envelope and set it on the living room coffee table.

Then I took out my phone and opened our message thread.

“Come home early today. There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

Two minutes later, he replied with a single word.

“Ok.”

I switched off my phone and tossed it onto the sofa.

Then I went into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water.

The kitchen was enormous. A double-door Sub-Zero fridge, built-in Wolf ovens, German-imported cookware—all of it arranged in perfect order.

But I rarely used any of it.

When we were first married, I tried cooking for him. I wanted him to come home to a hot meal.

The first time, I made a roast chicken. He took one bite and said it was fine. Then he took a phone call and left, saying Chloe had an emergency.

The second time, I made lasagna. He never came home.

The third time, I made a feast, bustling around from four in the afternoon until seven at night.

He did come home that time, but Chloe was trailing in his wake.

The two of them walked in, deep in conversation. When he saw the food on the table, he stopped short.

“We already have a reservation at Nobu.”

Chloe stood behind him and smiled at me.

“You must have gone to so much trouble.”

Even now, the memory of that smile is enough to make my stomach clench.

After that, I never cooked for him again.