Chapter 2

That night, we barely spoke.

Owen tried. Opened his mouth several times, started sentences he couldn't finish. But I was so tired. Tired in a way that sleep wouldn't fix.

I went to bed while he was still standing in the kitchen, staring at the receipt and the roses like they were evidence in a crime he couldn't remember committing.

Maybe they were.

The next morning, I woke to the smell of coffee. Owen had made breakfast—scrambled eggs, toast, orange juice in my favorite glass. A peace offering laid out on the dining table.

The roses were gone. He'd thrown them away.

He'd kept the receipt.

"Harper." He sat down across from me, hands wrapped around his coffee mug. "About last night. I owe you an explanation."

I picked up my fork. Waited.

"It was a business dinner," he said. "The client specifically requested Le Bernardin. You know how important this account is for the studio."

"Kenna likes crème brûlée," I said.

He blinked. "What?"

"The dessert on the receipt. You hate crème brûlée. You always say it's too sweet."

A pause. Then: "Kenna needed support before the presentation. You know how she gets. Anxious, second-guessing everything. I had to talk her through the pitch."

"For six hours."

"Harper—"

"While my mother was in surgery."

"Your mom is fine now, right?" He leaned forward, earnest. "I would've come if it was really serious. But you said it went well, the surgery was successful—"

"I said that at four in the morning. In a text. Because you never called."

He rubbed his face. Looked exhausted, like he was the one who'd been wronged. "I'm sorry. I should've been there. But you have to understand, I was under so much pressure—"

"You're strong," I said quietly. "You can handle it."

He didn't catch the irony. "Exactly. You've always been able to handle things on your own."

I set down my fork. Stood up.

"Where are you going?"

"To get something."

I went to my office—the spare bedroom where I took freelance calls and worked late into the night while Owen built his dream. My laptop was there, my design tablet, my filing cabinet.

And my notebook.

I'd started keeping it three years ago. Not out of paranoia, just habit. I'm a designer. I document everything. Measurements, color codes, revision histories. Numbers matter in my work.

Turns out they matter in marriage too.

When I came back to the table, Owen was eating his eggs, checking his phone. He looked up when I set the notebook down.

"What's that?"

I opened it to the first page. Three years of careful records, written in my neat handwriting.

"My investment portfolio," I said.

He frowned. "Your what?"

"Initial investment: eighty thousand dollars. My parents' gift, intended as a down payment on a house. Invested in Blake Architecture, March 2021."

"Harper, that wasn't an investment, that was—"

"Monthly household expenses." I turned the page. "Mortgage, utilities, groceries, insurance. Four thousand five hundred dollars per month, paid from my freelance income. Thirty-six months." I showed him the calculation. "One hundred sixty-two thousand dollars."

Owen stared at the numbers. "You... you kept track of all this?"

"Design work for the studio, provided free of charge." Another page. "The Henderson project. The Riverside complex. The Harrison renovation. Twenty-three projects total."

"Those were favors—"

"Favors have value." I kept my voice level. Professional. Like I was presenting to a client. "The studio's current estimated value, based on your last funding round: five hundred thousand dollars. My rightful share, as primary investor: twenty-five percent minimum. One hundred twenty-five thousand."

The color had drained from his face. "You're... you're treating our marriage like a business transaction?"

"No." I met his eyes. "I'm treating my business investment like a business investment. Our marriage is something else entirely."

I reached for my laptop, opened it to a bookmarked page. Turned the screen toward him.

"This is your studio website. 'Our Team' page."

There was Kenna, professional headshot, broad smile. Partner, Client Relations Specialist. Her bio detailed her MBA, her previous experience, her "invaluable contribution to Blake Architecture's success."

Below her was Owen's photo. His bio thanked his "dedicated team and supportive partner."

Supportive partner.

Not wife. Not investor. Not the person who'd made it all possible.

Kenna.

"Where am I, Owen?"

He looked at the screen. Back at me. "You said you didn't want to be in the spotlight."

"I said I don't enjoy networking events." My voice stayed calm. "That doesn't mean make me invisible."

"I asked if you wanted your photo on the website—"

"You asked once. Three years ago. I said I'd think about it. You never brought it up again."

"I thought—"

"And I never said no to being credited for my investment." I closed the laptop. "But that page says Kenna's your partner. Not me."

He stood up, started pacing. "This feels like it's really about Kenna. Are you jealous?"

"This is about my mother in an ER and you at Le Bernardin."

"That's not fair to bring up every time—"

"Every time?" I almost laughed. "Owen, there is no 'every time.' There's just... all the time."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

I picked up my notebook again. Flipped to another section.

"Thanksgiving last year. My grandmother died. You were helping Kenna move apartments."

"She'd just left her husband—"

"My design award ceremony. You were handling Kenna's difficult client."

"That was an emergency—"

"My father's anniversary. The fifth year since he died. You said Kenna was going through her divorce, she needed someone."

He stopped pacing. "Those were legitimate—"

"Every single time," I continued, "you had a reason. A good reason. An emergency. Something urgent. Something more important than whatever I needed."

"That's not true—"

"When was the last time you chose me, Owen?"

Silence.

"When was the last time something I needed took priority over something Kenna wanted?"

More silence.

"I can't think of one either," I said softly.

He sat back down, ran his hands through his hair. "Harper, I'm building something here. For us. For our future. Can't you see that?"

"I'm not in your future, Owen." The words came out clear, final. "I'm not on your website. I'm not at your business dinners. I'm not in your plans."

"That's not—"

"I'm just the bank. The invisible investor who keeps the lights on while you build your dream with someone else."

"Kenna is my business partner—"

"And I'm your wife. Which one do you treat better?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

I closed the notebook and stood up.

"Where are you going?"

"I need some time to think. I'm going to stay at my mom's for a few days."