Parte 2 — Not the Time to Be Jealous

Adrian had always been the calmest person in any room.

When a major acquisition collapsed forty-eight hours before closing, he finished his coffee before calling the board. When a former executive threatened to expose internal documents, Adrian asked Legal to verify the claim before he changed a single line in his schedule.

Claire Whitmore’s name destroyed that calm in seconds.

I stood beside the front door, staring at the car keys in his hand.

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

His brow tightened.

“What question?”

“What was she to you?”

He looked toward the driveway as though every second spent with me endangered Claire.

“We dated in college.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

“Maya.”

His voice carried a warning.

I had spent three years responding to that tone by becoming smaller. Quieter. Easier.

That night, I did not move.

“She called you the only person she wants at the end of her life.”

Adrian’s expression shifted, but he said nothing.

“She asked me to place her voice inside our home every morning for one hundred days. Do you understand what that means?”

“She’s sick.”

“So am I supposed to stop being your wife because she might be dying?”

His face closed.

“Now is not the time to be jealous.”

The words landed with terrifying softness.

No shouting. No insult he could later apologize for.

Just a clean division between the dying woman who deserved his tenderness and the living wife who was expected to absorb the damage gracefully.

I stepped away from the door.

“Drive yourself.”

He stared at me.

Then he left.

The house went silent behind him.

At 3:12 a.m., my phone lit up with a message.

Cancel the contract. She can’t handle more stress.

No apology. No explanation.

I typed three different replies and deleted them all.

In the end, I wrote: The client has not canceled.

He did not respond.

I slept for less than an hour.

At eight, I showered, dressed, and went to the studio before returning to Cascadia Medical Center with the recording equipment.

Claire looked worse than she had the day before. There were bruised shadows beneath her eyes, but when she saw me, she smiled.

“I wasn’t sure you would come.”

“You still have an active contract.”

“Adrian found me last night.”

“I know.”

Her gaze rested on my face.

“He has always been protective. I thought he might convince you to cancel.”

“Only the client can cancel.”

A flicker of amusement passed through her eyes.

“That sounds like him. Trying to decide for everyone.”

I assembled the microphone stand.

“How long did he stay?”

“All night.”

She said it without hesitation.

The small room seemed to narrow around me.

Claire touched the side of her water glass.

“He slept in that chair for maybe twenty minutes. He never was good at sleeping in hospitals.”

She knew how Adrian slept.

She knew what he looked like in the middle of the night.

I opened the recording software.

“Today’s message.”

Claire settled against the pillows.

When the red light came on, she spoke.

“Adrian, do you remember the night we drove to Cannon Beach because I said I had never seen the Pacific during a storm?”

Her voice warmed.

“You said it was a terrible idea. Then you drove four hours anyway.”

She laughed quietly.

“We sat in your car until sunrise. I fell asleep on your shoulder, and you didn’t move because you were afraid of waking me.”

My fingers hovered over the keyboard.

I had fallen asleep against Adrian once, on a flight home from New York.

He had woken me before landing and said my neck would hurt if I stayed in that position.

I had thought it was consideration.

Now I wondered whether he simply had not wanted my weight against him.

Claire finished the second recording.

A cough seized her before I could remove the microphone. I reached for her water, but she turned away and coughed into a tissue.

When she lowered it, I saw a streak of red.

I called the nurse.

Claire caught my wrist.

Her hand was cold.

“Don’t.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“It happens.”

I pressed the call button anyway.

While we waited, she studied me.

“Are you married, Maya?”

It was the first time she had used my first name.

“Yes.”

“Does your husband love you?”

I looked at the red light on the recorder. I had already stopped the session.

“That question isn’t part of your package.”

Her smile was faint.

“So he doesn’t.”

I freed my wrist from her hand.

A nurse came in, checked Claire’s oxygen level, and helped her lie back.

As I packed the equipment, Claire asked, “Do you love him?”

The answer rose before I could stop it.

“I used to.”

She went very still.

I closed the equipment case.

“Tomorrow at ten, if your doctor approves.”

Adrian arrived before I reached the elevator.

His tie was missing. His shirt was creased, and there was exhaustion beneath his eyes.

But the moment he saw me, irritation replaced it.

“Why are you still doing this?”

“Because Claire hasn’t canceled.”

“I’m canceling for her.”

“You aren’t her medical proxy or her authorized representative.”

His voice lowered.

“You know what these recordings are doing.”

“To whom?”

His stare sharpened.

Before he could answer, Claire called from inside the room.

“Adrian?”

He turned immediately.

The change in him was almost physical.

He entered the room and moved to her bedside. When he adjusted the blanket over her shoulder, his hands were gentle and sure.

Claire opened her eyes.

“I thought you had left.”

“I told you I’d come back.”

Only six words.

But I had waited three years to hear that promise spoken in that voice.

Claire glanced toward the door and saw me.

“Maya is still here.”

Adrian looked back.

The tenderness disappeared from his face so quickly that I almost questioned whether I had seen it.

“That will be all for today, Ms. Bennett.”

Ms. Bennett.

Not Maya. Not my wife.

A service provider he could dismiss from another woman’s room.

I met his eyes.

“Of course, Mr. Vale.”

Something tightened in his expression.

I walked away before he could speak.

At home, I opened the drawer where we kept our marriage documents.

Our wedding had not begun with a ring.

It had begun in Adrian’s office, with two lawyers and a private agreement.

At the time, my mother needed access to an experimental pulmonary treatment our insurance would not cover. Bennett Soundworks, the small audio-equipment company my father left behind, was collapsing under debt.

Adrian needed a wife.

Margaret Vale and several board members believed a thirty-two-year-old unmarried heir was too unpredictable to lead Vale Meridian Group. He needed the image of stability long enough to secure his position.

“I’m offering a three-year arrangement,” he had said.

“My family’s care grant will cover your mother’s treatment. I’ll help restructure Bennett Soundworks’ debt. In return, we maintain a private but legitimate marriage.”

“What happens after three years?”

“We decide whether to continue.”

I should have heard the emptiness in that answer.

Instead, I saw my mother’s hospital bills and signed.

The three years ended in nine days.

I placed our marriage certificate on the desk and opened a blank email.

Subject: Notice of Divorce.

For a long time, I stared at the empty body of the message.

There was too much to say, and none of it seemed worth saying anymore.

My phone rang.

Adrian.

I answered.

“Claire had another episode,” he said. “She doesn’t have family in Seattle. I’m staying here tonight.”

“All right.”

He paused.

“Are you angry?”

“No.”

“Then why are you speaking like that?”

I looked at our wedding photograph.

I had been smiling. Adrian had looked as though he were signing another contract.

“How should I speak?”

“Maya, don’t turn this into something it isn’t.”

“She asked me to record one hundred love messages for you.”

“She thinks she’s dying.”

“That doesn’t make me stop existing.”

Silence.

I pressed my fingertips against the marriage certificate.

“I am not required to make every betrayal convenient for you.”

“This isn’t betrayal.”

“Then tell her who I am.”

His breathing changed.

“Claire is unstable. This isn’t the moment to upset her.”

I laughed once, quietly.

There it was.

Her peace mattered.

My dignity did not.

“Good night, Adrian.”

“Maya—”

I ended the call.

Then I returned to the blank email and typed the first line.

Our agreement is over. I want a divorce.