I watched Richard across the mahogany dining table, the candlelight flickering across his chiseled features. He was a masterpiece, sculpted from wealth and power, and he was mine. Or, at least, he used to be.
At 23, I was living a life most could only dream of. I met Richard, nearly twice my age and a titan of industry, at a charity gala. He'd been captivated by my youthful energy and genuine kindness, a stark contrast to the polished socialites vying for his attention. They'd whirlwind-courted, and within six months, I found myself Mrs. Richard Harding, mistress of a palatial estate overlooking the Pacific.
In the beginning, it had been a fairytale. Richard had been attentive, showering me with gifts and experiences that left me breathless. He'd adored me, my fresh perspective on the world. He'd taken me to Paris for a weekend, bought me a Van Gogh (a minor one, but still!), and filled our home with laughter.
But the laughter had faded, replaced by a chilling silence. The weekend trips became business trips, the Van Gogh gathered dust, and the attentive gaze that had once burned so brightly in Richard's eyes now felt distant, almost glazed over.
He still provided for me, of course. The credit cards were unlimited, the designer clothes arrived daily, and the staff attended to my every whim. But it felt hollow, like being a gilded bird in a magnificent cage.
Tonight was another example. We were eating lobster thermidor, prepared by their Michelin-starred chef, but Richard barely touched his food. He was preoccupied, his brow furrowed as he scrolled through his phone.
"Richard," I ventured, my voice barely a whisper in the vast room. "Is everything alright?"
He looked up, startled. "Hmm? Oh, yes, darling. Just…business." He offered a weak smile, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"You've been saying that a lot lately," i pressed, my voice gaining strength. "You seem…distant."
He sighed, putting his phone down with a soft thud. "Clair, you know I'm busy. Running Harding Industries is a demanding job."
"I understand that," i said, my heart aching. "But it's more than that. We barely talk anymore. We haven't even held hands in weeks."
He reached across the table, his hand covering mine. His touch was cold, unfamiliar. "Don't be silly, darling. Everything is fine."
But i knew it wasn't. I could feel the chasm widening between us, a void filled with unspoken anxieties and growing loneliness.
Days turned into weeks, and Richard's detachment only intensified. He began spending his nights in his home office, the low hum of his computer the only sound in the house besides the crashing waves below. I tried to engage him, to reignite the spark they once shared, but my efforts were met with polite dismissals or hollow promises of more time together.
One evening, i found a receipt tucked inside his discarded suit jacket. A receipt for a romantic dinner at a secluded restaurant, not one they frequented. The date was last Friday, a night Richard had told me he was "stuck late at the office."
The pain was sharp and immediate, like a physical blow. Tears welled in my eyes as i confronted him.
"Who was she, Richard?" I asked, my voice trembling.
He paled, his usual composure crumbling. "Clair, it's not what you think."
"Then tell me!" I demanded, my voice rising. "Tell me who you were with last Friday!"
He hesitated, his eyes darting away from mine. Finally, he sighed, the weight of his guilt evident in his weary face. "It was a business associate. We were discussing a potential merger."
I stared at him, disbelief warring with heartbreak. The lie was clumsy, transparent. He wouldn't even look at me in the eye.
"I don't believe you," I whispered, the words heavy with resignation.
The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the sound of my sobs. In that moment, i realized the fairytale was over. The man i had loved, the man i had married, was gone, replaced by a ghost of a husband who was more interested in his empire than in me.