Chương 2
Somewhere along the way, Grant had started calling the place his house.
Tonight, he had said it again.
“Get out of my house.”
Claire stared at him.
Ryan rubbed his injured foot and muttered something under his breath.
Grant pointed toward the entrance.
“You heard me.”
Claire’s pulse slowed.
The change was so sudden that she noticed it.
“You want me to leave?”
“Yes.”
Diane looked at Grant.
“Maybe don’t—”
“No, Diane.”
Grant never looked away from Claire.
“She needs to learn that there are consequences when she disrespects this family.”
Claire glanced around the dining room.
Twelve-foot windows showed Denver glittering below them.
Gold candles burned between plates Claire had ordered from a small ceramic studio in Santa Fe.
The champagne chilling beside Ryan had cost more than the first monthly rent Claire paid after college.
Beyond the dining room stood the walnut cabinets she had chosen during the renovation, the piano she rarely played, and the couch where Ryan spent Sunday afternoons shouting at games while telling friends he had designed the place.
Claire had purchased the penthouse eighteen months before meeting him.
She had used stock compensation from the cybersecurity firm where she still worked as vice president of marketing.
The mortgage had been paid off before their second anniversary.
Ryan had never contributed a dollar toward the deed because his name had never been on it.
“Okay,” Claire said.
The entire table went still.
Ryan looked suspicious.
“Okay what?”
“I’ll leave.”
Brooke folded her arms.
“You’re seriously going to ruin New Year’s because of this?”
Claire looked at her.
“Because of what?”
Brooke’s eyes dropped toward Claire’s stomach and then away.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It sounded exactly like what you meant.”
Ryan took another step.
“Claire, stop.”
She backed toward the counter.
“Stay where you are.”
His expression changed.
For a moment, irritation slipped and something uncertain appeared beneath it.
It vanished quickly.
“You’re making this into something it isn’t.”
Claire picked up her handbag.
Grant reached for his whiskey.
“Good.”
Claire stared at the long embroidered table runner beneath the dinner she had spent most of the afternoon preparing.
Prime rib.
Potatoes Diane had criticized before tasting.
A pear salad Brooke said had too much cheese.
Grant’s preferred bourbon.
Ryan’s preferred champagne.
The ridiculous chocolate cake he had insisted looked festive enough for midnight.
Claire curled her fingers around the runner.
“Actually,” she said, “you can keep the dinner.”
Then she pulled.
Plates slid first.
Ryan lunged for the champagne bottle too late.
Crystal hit marble in a chain of violent cracks.
Red wine splashed across Diane’s cream dress.
The roast tipped onto the floor.
Brooke screamed and jumped backward as gravy poured over the edge of the table.
Grant’s whiskey landed upright somehow, wobbled twice, and fell against his shoe.
For the first time all evening, nobody had anything to say.
Claire looked at the wreckage.
The childishness of what she had done arrived immediately.
So did satisfaction.
She did not regret either feeling.
Ryan stared at her with open disbelief.
“You’ve lost your mind.”
Claire released the runner.
“No.”
Her voice was barely above a whisper.
“I think I’ve been losing it for a long time.”
She walked to the bedroom.
Ryan followed.
She heard him before she saw him because one of his shoes squeaked from the spilled wine.
“Where are you going?”
“Away from you.”
“For how long?”
Claire opened the closet and pulled down the small carry-on she used for business trips.
Ryan stood in the doorway.
“Claire.”
She packed underwear, two sweaters, leggings, her laptop, chargers, prenatal vitamins, and the soft gray dress she wore when she needed to look composed without thinking about clothes.
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s insane.”
She stopped packing.
“No, Ryan.”
She looked at him.
“What’s insane is that I can’t decide whether you holding me down was worse than you telling me to stop fighting.”
His mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
From the dining room, Grant shouted that someone needed to get paper towels.
Ryan lowered his voice.
“My dad was drunk.”
“You weren’t.”
“He got carried away.”
“You held my wrists.”
“I was trying to keep things from getting worse.”
Claire stared at him.
Ryan looked toward the hall.
The gesture was tiny, but she saw it.
He was still checking whether his father might hear him.
That hurt more than Claire wanted it to.
She zipped the suitcase.
Ryan reached for the handle.
She pulled it away.
“Don’t.”
“Where are you staying?”
“Not here.”
“This is our home.”
Claire almost corrected him.
Instead she lifted the suitcase from the bed.
Ryan moved aside only after she walked directly toward him.
At the elevator, his anger had disappeared.
His face looked strained now.
“Claire.”
She pressed the call button.
“Please.”
The elevator display climbed toward the penthouse.
Ryan rubbed both hands over his face.
“Whatever you do, don’t call the police.”
Claire turned slowly.
Behind him, the dining room looked wrecked.
Diane was kneeling with paper towels.
Brooke stood barefoot beside a broken champagne flute.
Grant was shouting about the rug.
Ryan looked at Claire with an expression she had never seen on him before.
Not remorse.
Fear.
The elevator doors opened.
Claire stepped inside.
Ryan caught the door with one hand.
“Claire, listen to me.”
She looked down at his hand.
He removed it.
“Don’t call the police,” he said again.
The doors closed.
Claire stood alone beneath the soft elevator lights, holding the suitcase handle with one hand and her belly with the other.
At the lobby desk, Marcus from overnight security rose the moment he saw her.
“Mrs. Bennett?”
Claire hated that her first instinct was to smile so he would not worry.
“I need you to preserve the security footage from upstairs.”
His expression sharpened.
“What happened?”
“Everything from the dining room cameras tonight, if they’re recording.”
“They are.”
“And the hall.”
“Yes.”
May you like
“Make a copy.”
Marcus looked at the burn in her sweater.
