Page 3 of The Sinner's Sanctuary

“Bravo, love! That miserable prick wouldn’t know the first thing about what to do with a gem like that. Thank you for taking my advice. I have a good feeling about that property.”

I’ve long since lost track of Marianne’s list of enemies. “That miserable prick” she’s referring to is Ben Levin and as far as I know he’s just another Manhattan real estate developer. In terms of an investment, the building I bought today is a good one—a blossoming neighborhood, structurally sound, and in foreclosure. It was a steal and guaranteed to make us plenty of money once the renovations are done. I’m already in discussion with Trader Joe’s to lease the lower level. Who wouldn’t want to live above a Trader Joe’s?

“So that’s the good news,” I say, sensing this might be my only opening to address a perennially sore subject.

“Oh? Is there a but coming?”

“Jessica quit.”

Silence on her end.

I sigh, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees. I fold my hands. “So that makes three assistants in three weeks, which I think is a record.”

She doesn’t say a word.

“It’s not that I don’t trust your judgment, but I think I might like to hire my own assistants from now on. Male, preferably.”

At that, she laughs.

I shake my head.

Marianne and I are still partners in many ways, particularly business. But her history of hiring assistants for me only to fuck them, or toy with them, or whatever she does to them that makes them leave me without notice is a practice I’d like to see end. She’s been on a tear lately. I usually get a month or two out of these women, but lately it’s like a revolving door.

I’d ask if anything is wrong, but I doubt she’d tell me. I can watch, but I can’t ask questions.

Not that I watch. While I’m an unapologetic voyeur, I draw the line at watching my wife take pleasure from someone who isn’t me. I only have so much sanity left to spare.

Like I said, we’re partners. She’s my best friend. But we haven’t been lovers since before we were married. The last time we had sex, she sobbed the entire time. I’ve yet to forgive myself for not stopping when I realized what was happening, but I deluded myself into believing they were tears of happiness and relief because it had been over a year of therapy that even allowed us to try again.

But the tears weren’t happy. They were trauma.

Afterward, she was inconsolable.

In a way, I’m glad to see her moving on with her life. I only wish it could have been with me.

I suppose I still have her in all the ways that count. Yet, I miss her every day.

“You know who you should ask?” She appears in the closet doorway in La Perla lingerie.

I avert my gaze. “Who?”

“Christian.”

“Sands?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Hm.”

“Why not?” she asks.

I shrug, considering our blond, deferential doorman. “He seems content.”

“He’s worked for us for years. Surely he can squeeze in a modicum of more responsibility with his poetry. Does he want to be a doorman forever?”

“It’s a good job,” I say. “Union.”

“What would Bruce say?”

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