The Song
The lights dimmed.
Music softened — our wedding song.
Across the room, Caleb was laughing with colleagues.
I approached him, heart pounding.
“Dance with me,” I said.
His jaw flexed. Declining would look bad.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “excuse me. Duty calls.”
Duty. That’s what I was now.
He placed a hand on my waist — just enough to suggest affection, just enough for show.
We swayed mechanically.
“The Patterson deal looks promising,” he murmured.
“That’s nice,” I said, leaning closer — searching for the man who once danced barefoot with me at two a.m., whispering about our “beautiful life.”
But that man was gone.
So I took a risk — a small kiss, nothing dramatic. Just… human.
Caleb jerked back as if I’d burned him.
Then he said it:
“I’d rather kiss my dog than kiss you.”
Laughter exploded.
Marcus nearly spilled his drink. Bradley clapped. Jennifer giggled behind her hand.
I froze. Then something inside me shifted.
The humiliation was acid — but beneath it came clarity.
The missed anniversaries.
The separate bedrooms.
The perfume that wasn’t mine.
It all made sense.
I’d been trying to resuscitate a corpse of a marriage.
The laughter grew louder. I straightened, smiled — a smile sharp enough to draw blood.
“You’re right, Caleb,” I said evenly. “I don’t meet your standards.”
His smirk widened — until I added,
“Because your standards require someone who doesn’t know about the Fitzgerald account.”
