Chapter 3 - The Steam and the Shattered Illusion
The master bathroom door was ajar, a sliver of warm, humid light spilling out onto the plush carpet of our bedroom. Thick plumes of fragrant steam drifted lazily into the hallway, carrying the distinct scent of jasmine-scented bath oil—the expensive French brand I kept exclusively for special occasions.
I motioned for my parents to stay just outside the threshold. They stopped, frozen in shock, their eyes wide with disbelief as they waited for me to make the first move.
I pushed the door open the rest of the way.
The oversized, freestanding soaking tub occupied the center of the marble-tiled room. The water was swirling with bubbles, illuminated by recessed blue mood lighting beneath the surface.
And sitting inside it, chest-deep in soapy water, were two bodies tangled together in an intimate, careless embrace.
Grant had his arm wrapped tightly around Chloe’s bare shoulders, his fingers tracing lazy circles on her collarbone. Chloe—my best friend of fifteen years, the woman who had stood beside me at my wedding holding my bouquet—was leaning back against his chest, her wet hair plastered to her neck, laughing softly as Grant whispered something into her ear.
They looked entirely at home in each other's arms, enveloped in a domestic bliss that had apparently been thriving right under my nose while I was flying across the country chasing multi-million dollar corporate accounts.
"I told you," Grant was saying, a smug, lazy grin spreading across his face, "she’s completely blind when it comes to work. She’ll be in Denver until tomorrow evening. We have all the time in the—"
"Grant."
The single word dropped into the humid room like a block of solid lead.
The laughter died instantly.
Grant’s head snapped toward the doorway. The color drained from his face so fast it looked like someone had pulled a theater curtain across his features. His mouth fell open, a pathetic little "O" forming as his eyes locked onto mine.
Beside him, Chloe gasped, throwing her hands up to cover her bare chest as she scrambled backward against the porcelain tub like a cornered animal, her wet hair flying across her face.
"Mere..." Grant choked out, his voice cracking violently. He made a clumsy, panicked move to stand up, splashing water everywhere, completely forgetting he was naked in front of not just his wife, but my mother and father, who were now standing grimly in the doorway behind me.
"M-Mom? Arthur?" Grant stammered, his face turning from ash-white to a burning, mottled crimson as my father stepped into the bathroom, towering over the tub with an expression of pure, unadulterated contempt.
"Put a towel on, Grant," my father said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Or don't. But keep your mouth shut until you're dressed. We have some business to discuss downstairs."
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I didn't yell. I didn't throw anything. I simply looked down at Grant—this man who had cried on my shoulder, who had sworn loyalty under a canopy of white roses ten years ago—and felt a profound, liberating emptiness.
"I'll be in the study," I said quietly, turning on my heel. "Don't take too long. My lawyers are waiting for my call."
