Chapter 1 – Elise

Is it odd to be mocked by a ticking clock? I hear it faintly, incessantly, methodically reminding me that time is passing.

Tick, tick, tick.

I can’t imagine how anyone would find the sound of a clock’s tick calming. For me, it may as well be an alarm that I cannot shut off. What am I missing? Why does this bother me so?

Lately, I find myself irritated by the most innocuous objects, the ticking clock, even the ambient sounds of the city in the downtown core. So many people, and so much noise—none of it discernible, other than honking horns or sirens. If I were smart, albeit, I am rarely these days, I would take the day off and find a lesser-known beach to walk along. The repeating sound of the waves lapping on the sand or crashing upon an outcrop of rocks is more my speed. Waves are random and unpredictable. If I close my eyes, I know another wave is coming but exactly when I cannot tell. A clock is regimented, militant, and maddeningly accurate.

Perhaps I am the clock. Perhaps it isn’t mocking me but emulating me.

My cell vibrates from inside my purse, and I fumble for it between lipstick, wrinkled receipts, and a package of mints. I know it’s Marcus without looking at the screen. I was expected at his mother’s house twenty minutes ago, but I can’t seem to get myself organized this morning. I put a fake smile on my face so my voice will naturally sound sweeter, then I answer his call.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“What’s the delay? Everyone has been waiting for you.”

“Yes, yes, I know I’m late, Marcus. I had a short meeting with Charles on the phone about a project we’ve been working on for the past four months. He’s found new information which changes everything.”

I’m lying to him. I never lie to Marcus. But if I told him I’d been sitting in my kitchen for the past hour procrastinating visiting his family, he’d be upset with me. I grimace as I continue the charade, “Anyway, you know the drill. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“It is almost to the point of not bothering to come. Anyway, just don’t forget to wear the watch I bought you. I told Mother about it, and she’ll be expecting to see it,” and then he hung up.

All our phone calls end without a goodbye or start with a hello. We are efficient that way.

Thankfully, the watch doesn’t make a ticking sound as many watches do, or I’d have considered launching it off the roof of my building while sipping a flute of sparkling wine. “Good God! What is the matter with me?”

It is truly lovely, and I’d never destroy such a beautiful gift. Marcus’s taste in everything is impeccable, and for what he spent on it, I could likely trade it in for a new sports car. For Marcus, this is a drop in the never-ending bucket of money he earns.

I arrive at Marcus’s parents’ stately home within a half hour of me and Marcus’s brisk conversation. As I exit my car on the circular driveway, I adjust my new watch on my left wrist and put a fake smile on my face before climbing the five stairs to the front door. Just as I approach the entrance, Francine, Marcus’s teenage sister, opens it.

I smile and nod. “Thanks. I was about to knock. Did you see me arrive?”

“Hi, Elise. No, I’m heading out to lunch with Amy. Everyone’s in the garden waiting for you.”

I step past her and remove my shoes then hang them by the heels between my fingers. “Are you not staying for tea? Don’t you always stay for tea?”

“Not today. Amy is leaving for Europe tomorrow. I want to see her before she flies out.”

“Oh. Well, wish her a great trip for me. How long is she gone for?”

“Six months. If I can break away from my courses at the end of next month, I’ll join her there. But I’ve not convinced Mother to let me go. Do me a favour and mention how awesome it would be for me to tour Europe with Amy, will you?” she asks, pleading with me like typical teenagers do when they really want something. I nod and smile.

“I’ll do what I can, Francine. But no promises on how effective I am as your advocate when it comes to your mother.”

“Just try,” she pleads as she scurries out the door and jogs down the driveway toward her car.

“Sure,” I mutter to myself, as if her mother, Amelia, would take advice from a thirty-year-old childless woman on how to raise her teenage daughter. I walk swiftly to the garden patio at the back of the house in my bare feet then don my shoes again as I reach the door’s threshold.

“There she is,” Marcus says. “We thought you’d never make it.”

My mind wanders back to the fantasy of walking that long stretch of unoccupied beach, and that thought calms me. These Wednesday morning teas that Amelia puts on each week are lovely, but a tedious waste of my valuable time. I think once a month would be sufficient and pose less interruption to my work schedule. For Amelia, it is a way of controlling the family.

“Elise, come sit. The tea is getting cold. And show me the watch Marcus bought for your anniversary,” she says with a sparkle in her eyes. Marcus is her favourite child and can do no wrong. She wanted to throw a huge party for us celebrating our ten years together as a couple, regardless of the fact we’re not married. I swear, any reason to throw a party is a viable excuse for Amelia.

I do as asked and step forward to show her the watch.

“Oh, that is stunning. You love it, right?”

“Yes, of course. It’s really beautiful and far too expensive. He really shouldn’t have.”

“Never mind,” Amelia states. “Sit and have tea. Lunch will be served shortly.” Marcus pulls out my chair and I sit between him and Amelia. My stress level is off the charts today, and I begin to have what feels like a mild panic attack, so I close my eyes for a second and envision the beach again.

“Are you alright, Elise?” Marcus asks as he reaches for my hand and squeezes it gently.

I lie again, but this time it’s because I’m too exhausted by obligations out of my control to tell him the truth. “Yes, yes. I’m fine. I’m just enjoying the warmth of the sun on my face.”

Chapter 2 – Elise

“Married for Love – Divorced for Money,” was the headline Charles joked would grab our reader’s attention. I shake my head at him. “No, Charles. I’m not taking that angle for this story, but nice try though.”

Charles runs his hand through his graying disheveled, windswept hair as he smirks at me. “The wind is strong today; hot and gusty – kind of like your attitude,” he quips then smirks.

“I have a reputation to uphold.” I offer him my cheesiest grin and nod as I gather my belongings off the boardroom table. “Anyway, I’ll give you a call after my interview this morning once my attitude has been put in check. Perhaps by then you’ll have a better headline.” My reply is as dry as the L.A. air as I brush past him at the door opening. “And get a haircut already. You look like you’re a long-lost relative of Einstein’s.”

Charles doesn’t raise his head from his papers, while making a shooing motion with his free hand toward me. As messy and seemingly unorganized as Charles appears, beneath that false surface is a smart, almost cunning mind that I’ve come to appreciate. His advice is always on the spot and timely, and my career has grown so quickly under his wing.

The latest interview I’m conducting for my byline is with a relatively unknown woman who recently divorced an unfathomably wealthy man. Hence, Charles’s cheeky headline.

Lillian Hargrave had indeed married Jeffrey Aaron Hargrave for love, but the article I am inspired to write is about what she’s doing with her immense divorce settlement, not exclusively on how she acquired it.

With a cool hundred and twenty million settlement, and a new purpose in life, her first independent charitable venture was to start a foundation for rescuing greyhound dogs that had been retired or injured from racing. She was also advocating for the abolishment of dog racing worldwide, among other worthy animal rescue operations.

Ms. Hargrave had specifically asked me to conduct her interview and I jumped at this chance. On March 18^th, at precisely 10:00 AM, I am scheduled to conduct the interview as dictated by her assistant, Janelle.

Come the morning of the eighteenth, I enter the downtown L.A. building where Ms. Hargrave owns the penthouse, and the concierge has my name on the list of expected building visitors. While I await his confirmation, I admire his handsome, crisp suit and his impeccable mannerisms. He soon informs the most prominent resident of my arrival in a series of pleasantries that would befit the Queen of England.

“Yes, Ma’am. Of course, Ma’am. I’ll direct her immediately, Ma’am.”

I’m escorted to her private elevator by hand gestures, nods, a tip of his hat, and a “Good day, Madam,” as the elevator door closes. It will whisk me up twenty-eight floors to the Number One penthouse. There are four penthouse suites in this tower, but Ms. Hargrave’s is the largest, and of course, on the highest floor.

In this town, it is rare to be alone in an elevator, and for a moment I feel as uncomfortable as one feels just moments after their mother reveals an embarrassing childhood secret to your new boyfriend. I sense the prying eyes of the hidden cameras on me, and I feel violated. Or maybe my anxiety stems from this being my last interview for the agency before I take my hiatus. I’m more determined than ever to go out with a win.

Ms. Hargrave’s assistant, Janelle, greets me as the elevator door slides open, directly into her penthouse foyer. I smile and shake her hand before my eyes are filled with the visual of a grand, fresh tropical floral display only steps away from the elevator entrance on my left. The vase is placed upon a sympathetically restored antique French Provincial buffet. The centerpiece has a heavenly collection of pale pink peonies, hot pink tropical ginger stems, orchids, calla lilies, lotus blooms, and a variety of feather-like greenery. As I savour the beauty of this arrangement the dollar signs of what it must have cost pile atop each other inside my head. On the opposing side of the foyer are three large mirrors, with the frames matching the style and colour of the buffet. Each of the mirrors was heavily shattered. As I ponder the artist’s intention, Ms. Hargrave floats into the foyer to meet me.

“Good morning,” she says as she reaches her right hand to clasp mine with a confident grip. Then, the elegant fingers of her left-hand wrap around my wrist encircling my hand in the equivalent of a warm hug. Indeed, the most wonderful handshake I’ve experienced.

“Good morning, Ms. Hargrave. A pleasure to meet you.”

“Lillian, please call me Lillian.”

“Lillian… may I ask about the flowers and the mirrors?”

“Yes, of course. What would you like to know?”

“I’ve seen many elaborate floral displays in hotels but rarely are they this striking in a private residence. Who is your florist?”

She nods and smiles.

“My father was a florist for forty-two years. If you’ve lived in L.A. for a while, you’d have seen his work displayed in many hotel lobbies. Now that he’s retired, I own the ten locations he established.”

She turns to face the wall of mirrors while slipping her hands inside her pantsuit pockets.

“As for the mirrors, I chose to hang broken ones, because I believe perfection is an illusion. I had them commissioned for this space last spring. The artist’s name is James Waldorf.”

Moments later, the assistant has disappeared into an offshoot hallway, and I am following Ms. Hargrave through her suite at her behest. We settle into her living room as she gestures for me to sit opposite her on the oversized, diamond-tufted fabric sofa.

As cliché as the expression is, she is as cool as a cucumber. I maintain a positive feeling about her while her assistant slips quietly in and out of the grand space with nary a sound to her footsteps. That talent alone is worth whatever she’s being paid to babysit her multi-millionaire employer. I take brief notes in shorthand about Lillian’s attire, noticing her high society poshness in the same way one would notice a Macy’s Day Parade float from a mile away. She’s not afraid to flaunt her wealth or her pride in her refinement.

My first question caught her by surprise as I think she thought I’d be talking about her money or divorce straight out of the gate.

“Why is so little about you published in the media? You have remained hidden, virtually unnamed, for many years. Why?”

A gentle laugh follows a forced smile when she replies, “Jeffrey was the star. I was his silent partner in every sense of the word.”

“Did this bother you?” Her eyes never leave me as she reaches for a small piece of cheese from the charcuterie board on the table between us while deciding how to answer me.

“No. I was happy to let him suck up as much oxygen in the room as he needed.”

Her now heartier laughter echoes within this cavernous space.

“Why would you think my mystery existence in the press would bother me?”

Inside, I’m smiling to myself. No woman who wants to stay silent, or for whatever reason agrees to be forcibly closeted, wears eighty-thousand-dollar watches, and dresses as vividly as a parading peacock inside a massive penthouse suite without expecting others to assume she intends to not be noticed. Unless, of course, this is a new look for her. She delicately places the small cube of cheese on her tongue and begins to treasure the sensation of this morsel like it were for the first time.

“Is that your favourite?”

She smiles wryly at me and winks.

“I don’t indulge in cheese very often because it is addictive and fattening. Today I feel like spoiling myself a little. Please, try a piece,” she suggests while gesturing with her hand toward the platter in a smooth Vanna White puzzle reveal way, then she leans comfortably back into the cushions. As she spreads her arms elegantly over the back of the sofa, I can feel her confidence emanating toward me like a heat wave.

“Why didn’t you establish the greyhound rescue foundation while you were still married? Hasn’t dog racing been a highly contested sport since it started in the early 20^th Century?”

“That is the question of the day, isn’t it? If I’m honest, Jeffrey had many foundations and charities that he either created or was chair of. Thus, my time was spent caring for these organizations because that is what he does. He starts things, puts his name on them, then passes on the obligation to someone else. I mean me, leaving little time to found or fund my own. Now that I’m free of the other obligations he created for me,” she pauses to inspect the cheese options on the tray quickly, “Well, most of them, I can now do what I’ve longed to do for quite some time.”

Her smile widens after she selects another morsel of cheese, then pops it into her mouth playfully. I nod and smile back. Her surprising playfulness is something I’d be remiss to not add as a character trait in my article.

I pride myself on being over-prepared for every interview, but there wasn’t time for a proper deep dive as she insisted this interview be done now or she’d take her story elsewhere. Although very little is available to find under Lillian’s maiden name of Lassiter in the news archives, I found tidbits of information about her family, some online posts of awards she’d achieved in college, and the odd image of her in social gatherings where her name was listed as an attendee. However, none of this spoke to the person she is now or what we are trying to achieve with the article.

She does seem keen to tell her story. I may be in better standing than I had expected. I double-check that my cellphone is recording our conversation with a quick glance at the table as I consider my next question.

While I continue to ponder her lack of public presence, I am again confronted with the unlikely thought that she preferred to blend into the wallpaper. Her husband, the oxygen sucker extraordinaire, simply stole the show while she watched dutifully from afar. If I’m right, this tells me she has a lot more to divulge than her plans for her Hargrave Greyhound Rescue Foundation. Rather than stoke the fire of a possible backlash on the subject of her ex-husband, I choose to focus on her future endeavors.

“What is so special about the greyhounds to you? And why Hargrave rather than Lassiter?”

“You know, I chose you for this interview because of your long-standing work with animal welfare. So, to answer your first question, it is because I love animals, as you do, and I abhor the practice of racing dogs for entertainment. My mother loved greyhounds as well and so it is a family tradition to adopt them.”

Lillian takes in a swift breath and then says, “Additionally, the Hargrave name has more pull for publicity purposes.”

With a quick couple of finger snaps above her head, two svelte, elegant silver coated greyhounds come into the room and stand directly at her feet. She gestures with her hand for them to sit and they comply promptly. Each is given a morsel of cheese from the platter before her eyes reach mine and she smiles.

“They are lovely. What are their names?”

“Candice and Murphy.”

“May I address them?”

“Yes! Of course.”

She sweeps her hand in a half-circle before them and they quickly round the table to stand at my feet. I smooth a light hand over their heads one at a time. They are so gentle and sweet. I cup my fingers around Candice’s jaw and then rub her cheek gently with my thumb while Murphy tries to kiss my nose with his tongue. My eyes lift to meet Lillian’s.

“We are kindred spirits, you and I.”

“So it seems,” she giggles. “Do you have any pets?”

“I did. Brandy, my Siamese cat, passed on about six months ago. Since I travel so much with my boyfriend Marcus, I thought it best to not adopt another pet until I’m settled into a more pet friendly routine.”

“Aw. I’m sorry to hear that, Elise.”

She presents a folder with statistics and horrifying information regarding which US states had not yet made dog racing illegal, which states had recently abolished dog racing, and that one lonely survivor of this horror, West Virginia – the only state as of 2022 that continues to operate a betting track. Lillian’s primary goal is to have dog racing completely abolished by making this sport illegal in the remaining state holdouts.

With Lillian’s story, I hope to showcase the beauty of the breed, the need to outlaw the archaic practice of racing dogs and shed light on how to adopt a retired greyhound. Her compassion is legitimate. But to really sell this story I need to delve into her past life. And to this end, I think many will be surprised to learn Lillian loves the limelight, even if she was expected to stay out of it for many years.

There is so much more to Lillian than her love for animals. She is an award-winning poet under her pseudonym, Alexa Dressler, and has been the captain of her rowing club for the past six years. As we continue our candid conversation, I feel trusted and respected as though she and I have been dear friends for many years. With that thought in mind, I’ll need to be cautious in case she feels that connecting with me so easily will ensure I feature her in the perfect light. As much as Lillian wants the story to be about her rescue foundation, what the readers want to know is how she got to where she is now.

Lillian allowed me to take a dozen portraits of her, Candice, and Murphy against the distant backdrop of the L.A. skyline through her floor-to-ceiling windows. While I snapped the images she continued to talk to me candidly, mentioning that part of what made her feel assured that the divorce was the right decision was that she no longer felt like a trophy wife by Jeffrey. Nobody knew she came from wealth prior to marrying Jeffrey Hargrave.

“I still love the man I married, but not the man he’s become.”

My smile at her comment is tight while I snapped off a few more images before the light in the room changed.

“I noticed you have a lovely watch. Did you buy that for yourself?” she asks as she checks that her canine companions are still looking at the camera.

“No. It was a gift from my boyfriend.”

“He has exquisite taste.”

I nod. “Yes, quite.”

That’s when it hit me. My watch, this stunningly beautiful, outrageously expensive watch isn’t the gift that Marcus thinks it is. It is a glaring reminder that time is slipping away, my clock is ticking, and I’m anxious to make changes in my life. I miss his affection, and his time, and no trinket will replace that loss. It makes me feel like I’ve been rewarded for being a good girl. Marcus has forgotten that a bouquet of flowers would have had more impact on saying how much he loves me than a watch ever could. His gift tells me that he’s proud of how much money he has, not that I’m a dutiful girlfriend who’d do anything for him if only he’d buy me flowers and kiss me before he leaves for work in the morning.

Although I’d expressed this to him on a few occasions, he’d soon forget, and we’d be back to square one. For the past year, I quietly obsessed over my future because I’ve grown tired of being his pet, his arm candy, his plus one. I know Marcus adores me, but I’m adored from behind a glass wall, like a collectible doll. This was another reason why I felt connected to Lillian during the interview. We lead similar lives in that manner, but this is also where our parallel ends. Because I lacked interest, and the guests lacked interest in me, at the stuffed shirt events Marcus dragged me to, hosted in monstrous estates, he would often find me outside on the patio with the family pet looking up at the night sky or playing fetch with Fido in my Vera Wang ballgown rather than making inconsequential small talk. The dogs and cats often had far warmer personalities than the hosts and guests and I’ve never met an animal I didn’t like.

Chapter 3 – Elise

My mood as of late must have been felt by Marcus. The moment I walk in the door of my apartment I see Marcus leaning against the kitchen island with his arms folded tightly over his chest. This pose usually means he has something on his mind. His head lifts, and his eyes meet mine, as I stride toward him with my arms filled with two paper grocery bags and my heavy leather work satchel slung over my left shoulder.

“A little help?” I ask.

Marcus meets me halfway down the short entry corridor to take one of the grocery bags from my tired arms.

“Thank you.” His continued silence, without even a hello, or “What took you so long to get home,” frustrated me. True to fact, everything about our relationship now frustrates me. I struggle to find any remnant of connection, affection, or reason to continue. Perhaps he feels this too. Perhaps we are dragging this on for the sake of his reputation because God forbid a woman would dump a catch like Marcus. The urge to laugh aloud at what we’ve become choked my resolve to stay calm and quiet, breaking my self-imposed silence. The giggles begin as I unload my groceries.

The scowl that covers Marcus’s face like a cold wet blanket makes me want to laugh harder.

“What are you laughing at?” He says as he shakes his head at me. “I’m running out of patience with you. And why aren’t you wearing the watch I gave you?”

I ignore his comment as I continue to unload the groceries. He’s running out of patience with me – that’s rich. Perhaps there is much more going on in his mind than just our struggling relationship. I’m taking my time because the longer I take to put my items away, the more likely he will confess to what is bothering him. I sigh heavily as I return to standing face-to-face with him from across the kitchen island.

“Marcus. I don’t know what you want from me anymore. And I’m not wearing a fifty-thousand dollar watch to the supermarket.”

He slides my folded grocery bags aside and plants his palms firmly on the edge of the counter, holding his dark brown eyes wide and strong on me.

“It was closer to ninety thousand, but I get your point.”

A strange quirk of his lips emanates into a smile followed by a light incredulous chuckle which I find a bit disturbing. Something is off. He is rarely this way with me; unpredictable. I can’t imagine that I’ve done something wrong as I’m quite careful not to step on his toes or create controversy because of his societal standing, and he’s stone-cold sober as best I can tell.

“You were off your game last Wednesday at Mother’s for tea. Something is going on here and I can’t put my finger on it. Are you seeing someone else?”

“Is that why you are standing there with the stiff posture and accusing eyes? No, Marcus. I’m not seeing anyone. I barely see you as it is. That’s the problem. And when would I have time for another lover?”

“Okay, okay.”

He raises his hands in the air to placate me after his out-of-the-blue question.

“It was just something that crossed my mind because we’ve been so distant with each other lately.”

He pauses to gauge my reaction then clears his throat before stating, “You know, I bought an engagement ring for you three months ago. I thought you were tired of waiting for me to propose. It seemed like a logical chain of events to marry you.”

He presents with a tight smile.

“If all I have to do is propose, to make you come to your senses, then here,” he says, pulling a round black velvet ring box rimmed in gold banding from his pocket, and placing it on the countertop. He slowly slides the box toward me while the shock of what he’s doing leaves me dumbfounded for a reply.

Tentatively, out of curiosity, I reach for the box to open it. He has not uttered the words, “Will you marry me?”, and this moment feels as stressful and as awkward as it should. One minute he asks if I’m cheating on him, and the next he’s proposing to me. I don’t know who is more confused – him or me.

What am I doing? Why am I entertaining this idea? This is so ridiculous. Getting married won’t fix us.

Instead of opening the ring box I cover it with my palm and squeeze the box gently in my hand before I slide it back toward him. My gaze lifts to meet his and I linger in his return stare. His eyes glass over as do mine.

“You’ve been carrying this ring with you for three months? It sounds to me like you aren’t sure, Marcus. We’ve been a power couple for many years now, but is that really enough? I loved you with all my heart at one time.”

I pause to remove my hand from his reach as I know he’ll try to placate me again now that he’s put his heart out on his sleeve.

“We just need to reset, Elise. Let’s go on vacation, anywhere in the world you want to go,” he pleads. “And then I’ll propose to you properly, which is clearly what you’re saying to me now.”

Marcus doesn’t plead with anyone, so I’ll have to be cautious with my words. I shake my head while a single tear escapes the inside corner of my right eye. I don’t want to speak. I can’t speak. The conversation about us is long past due. It’s as much my fault as it is his.

Marcus leans forward, placing his elbows on the counter, and is reaching for my hands.

“I’m sorry for not being there for you these past few months. I’m frustrated by so many work projects and wasn’t able to focus on you as I should have. We can rebuild what we had. We got lost, you know? Ten years is a long time together and we shouldn’t throw that away because we went off the beaten path.”

“No.” I shake my head from side to side as I lean away from his reaching hands. “No, Marcus. It’s far too late for that.”

I pause, and almost stutter when I speak. Finally, I blurt it out. “I’ve taken a leave of absence from my job. My Mom wants me to come to stay with her in Ireland. I leave in two days.”

I don’t know what to do with my hands at this moment. I shrug, sniffle, and nervously rub my palms down the front of my skirt before I decide to cross my arms over my body in a self-hug.

Marcus is clearly puzzled. His expression changes in an instant, which is what I’d expected. His posture stiffens again. His shoulders roll back as he stands before me now.

“Ireland?” he scoffs. “And you quit your job? What the hell is going on, Elise!? You love your job. What is the meaning for this set of sudden rash decisions?”

“I didn’t quit. It’s a leave of absence.”

He’s in denial, shock, or both because this is so unlike me to be flippant with my career and our relationship. I’m known by everyone as steady, compliant, and rarely outspoken.

Had Marcus not half-assedly proposed moments earlier, I’d have been stronger in my own posturing, but I am saddened by what could have been. Many times over the years, I dreamed of us having a beautiful wedding, a child on the way, and me being able to spend some time writing for pleasure rather than for work. But what I’ve denied him, what I’ve denied us, cannot be undone because I’ve given up trying to make us work. Without another word, he collects his jacket and leaves. The ring box remains on my counter like a blaring ironic reminder that our circle is broken.

The slamming door behind him echoes through my suite like rolling thunder. Even through his sudden anger, he will not give up easily because no one says no to Marcus. Not telling him about putting my job on hold and moving indefinitely to Ireland before now was wrong. I know this, but I was afraid to upset the apple cart. I played out this scene of telling him of my plans in my head a hundred times but never did an engagement ring appear in one of those possible scenarios.

Fuck! I need to apologize to him or at the very least be more clear on what brought me to this place. I race to the door and down the hall to the elevators with the ring box gripped tightly in my left hand. His back is turned to me as the elevator doors begin to close. The mirrored wall of the car’s interior reflects his somber face, marking the perfect visual of what I’ve done to him. I stop the door from closing with my foot and stand ready to say my peace. My rejection of his ring was an insult but that was not my intent.

“Marcus.”

My breath hitches as I arrange my thoughts more clearly before I continue.

“Please don’t be angry with me. I know this is a shock. But your proposal was a shock too.”

He turns to face me, and my eyes search his while I’m looking for any level of understanding.

I plead with him now. “You and I have been leading different lives for a long time. I need you, and want you, but you are never here for me. This isn’t a relationship. This is an arrangement.”

I pass Marcus the ring box. He takes it from my hand in careful consideration of my words.

“I should have seen this coming, Elise. Maybe time apart is what we need and as much as I hate the thought of you overseas, I understand now why you want to go.”

I step inside the elevator car and let the doors close behind me as I stand nose to nose with him. His unexpected kiss is tender. My heart aches. His arms encompass my nervous frame and I lay into his chest nesting my head upon his shoulder.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

The elevator car reaches the underground parkade and the doors slide open. Marcus kisses my forehead then slips past me to exit without looking back. In my head, the word goodbye reverberates like a call from the top of a mountain. Maybe he heard it in his head too.