Mogul (Manhattan #2)(6)

Yes, yes, yes to it all.

I walk into my apartment an hour later, listening to the noises of my next-door neighbors playing video games. “Shut up!” I bang on our shared bedroom wall, sigh, and slip into bed with my laptop, checking the advertisements for anything Broadway related. There is…

Nothing.

I’m stuck as a concierge for now. I set aside the laptop when my neighbors start screaming at their video game again, and I groan and cover my head with my pillow, deciding noise-canceling earphones will be the first thing I buy when I have extra money. I keep telling myself this, but I always manage to spot a nice pair of shoes I want instead.

Thoughts of money lead to thoughts of my impending rent payment. My roommate has moved out and I’m finally alone, but now I have to cover the entire bill. I sit up, open my computer, and start drafting a want ad. Dark eyes flash in my mind. My heart stops for a beat before resuming. God. What a yummy motherfucker he was.





Ian

Two days ago…



The droning sound of her voice over the telephone goes on and on and fucking on. I exhale and growl, “Talk to my lawyer,” and I slam the receiver into the cradle.

I glare at the phone and grind my palms into my eyes before exhaling and dropping my hands to my lap.

What the fuck happened?

We dated all through college and, after graduation, took the next logical step and moved to New York. I made money. I kept making money, giving her more than she ever dreamed we would have: a four-bedroom West End Avenue penthouse with views of the Hudson, generous shopping sprees at Bergdorf, exotic vacations via chartered private jets. I thought only of earning more, providing more—until the day I walked into our apartment to find a pair of cufflinks that weren’t mine.

I asked if she’d been fooling around.

She denied it.

Like a fool, I believed her story about buying them as a gift for me. I ignored the fact that they were already open and there was no empty package. I took them. I even wore them to our next event. Like a goddamn fool.

Eight months later, I walked into our apartment to find two glasses of wine in the sink, her shoes on the floor, and a string of underwear leading to our bedroom. I stood by the door, listening to them.

THEM.

My wife, and someone else.

My whole body trembled as I yanked the door open and charged at him.

I grabbed him off her, turned him around, and sent him flying to the wall.

“We’re done,” I spat at her, gathering the man’s shit and shoving it into his chest. “And you—never, ever step back here if you know what’s good for you.”

He was some young accountant who worked for the firm my film company hired, who was helping my wife with her personal expenses. Ha!

“Ian,” she begged, “you’re never here.”

“You,” I snarled, “are here because of me.” I motioned to the apartment, every luxury she could ever want on display. “You’re fucking here because of me, Cordelia.” I looked into her eyes, once so innocent and sweet, a girl who used to bake me cakes she served with homemade ice cream when it was my birthday. What happened to her? What happened to us?

“You’re never here,” she sobbed. “I’m twenty-five years old, Ian. I have needs!”

I shook my head, the disappointment in me, in her, in us crushing me to the point that my lungs could hardly pull in air. “You could have talked to me.”

“I’ve tried.” She covered her face and lowered her gaze.

I grabbed a suitcase and started packing my bags.

“Where are you going? Ian, please.”

“Out. I’m not coming back. You’ll hear from my lawyer.” I zipped my suitcase shut in record time. It was always something I did with a shade of reluctance when I had to leave on another business trip. This was the first time I packed a bag without a moment’s thought.

“It doesn’t have to be like this!” She chased me to the front door and froze unexpectedly when I faced her.

“No. It didn’t,” I said, glancing down at her clothes on the floor and her naked body as proof of her betrayal, and I walked out.

It’s been over a year and our divorce is still not finalized. I told her to keep the apartment—all I want is her signature. I want to be free of her and the reminder of how goddamn stupid I was.

I can’t believe I have to go back to fucking New York tomorrow.

I press the intercom button to my assistant. “Make sure you don’t book my room under my name. I don’t want her to get even a whiff of me being in the city,” I growl. “And don’t put her through to me next time she calls.”

I release the intercom button, exhale, and lean back in my chair, scraping a hand across my jaw.

Twelve and a half months since that fateful night, and it still looms over me like a cloud. She said all I did was work. It wasn’t true, but her words were prophecy and that’s all I ever do now. All I ever am. Work and bitterness and distrust, and money, lots of money. Lately I wonder if there’s anything on this damn planet that’ll get me to feel human again.

I shoot an email to my divorce lawyer and ask to meet him in New York.





I NEED A DIVORCE


Ian

Present day…