Page 27 of Power Games

"I bet you're fucking that girl you're seeing. Vanessa. You know how unfair that is?"

"Vanessa is just a friend, Isabella," he replied. "I'm fucking my hand to take the edge off, if you must know. I suggest you do the same. Now, are you going to leave me alone, or should I book a hotel for the rest of the night?"

As she carried on yelling, he closed his laptop, went out the doors, and started what would become a long tradition of booking a suite in a nearby hotel when his wife was having a tantrum.

The first time was the worst. The only time he regretted.

He came back the next morning to find the house empty. Unusual. Izzy had stopped going out when her baby bump had started to show. She hated it, hated seeing herself in the mirror. Charles had found himself telling her, "It's been a long time since I've found you so attractive, Isabella. There's no need to be self-conscious."

"You're not the one who's getting stretch marks and looks fat," she'd snapped.

He'd shrugged and left her to it.

Their relationship was so cold. So toxic. So cruel. Sometimes, he wondered if the right thing wasn't ending it, no matter the consequences. It wasn't as if he needed to get into politics. He didn't have to preserve a perfect image at all times. He could be straightforward, explain things to the press. He'd weather the storm.

The problem was that the thought of someday aspiring to serve his country had been sown and taken root in his dreams. He'd make a real difference, for young people, the vulnerable, and the rest of the world.

So he put up with Izzy. It was worse every time he met Vanessa. Everything she did or said, the way she looked, and the way he felt around her only served to point out just how wrong Izzy was for him now. She'd suited the boy just out of high school. She wasn't right for the man he'd become.

Charles was glad to find his home empty that morning. He got changed and went to work. It wasn't until much later in the afternoon that his assistant came in his office, eyes wide, panicking as she told him that Izzy had been admitted to the hospital in the middle of the night.

He rushed out, running most of the way, and hailed a cab. The whole journey passed in a blur. He didn’t think he truly realized what was happening until he was standing next to a female doctor who looked at him with ice and judgement in her eyes.

“Your wife is unwell, sir. Mentally and physically.”

“What happened? How did she get here? The baby…”

“A friend called an ambulance at 2 in the morning. She was found bleeding in her bathtub. I’m afraid the child didn’t make it, sir.”

He didn’t think anything could get more horrific at that point. He was wrong.

“Mrs. Grant was drunk and on recreational drugs, sir. She’s not talking much, but we have reason to believe that she’s been taking substances regularly throughout the pregnancy. I trust you’re aware of her medical history? She needs help. I understand that you work in a demanding environment. If you find yourself unable to give her the support she needs, she should spend some time with family or friends who are more attentive.”

The doctor wasn’t even hiding that she blamed him. His indifference.

Cruel glares. Cold words. Toxic hatred. That was what he’d given his wife for months. Years, perhaps.

“Her history?” he repeated numbly.

The woman glanced through the file in her hands. “Brought in after being found unconscious and intoxicated in June 2006, arrested for possession in November that year, admitted in a recovery program two days later, released in early December before completing her course of treatment. Similar history in 2007 and 2008. Nothing since.”

His brain was going to explode. Nothing made sense anymore.

“I was on tour. For eight months in 2006, came back that December. Left again for the next couple of years. I was discharged in 2008.”

The doctor’s expression softened ever so slightly.

“Many substance abusers are adept at appearing functional. I understand that if she has been using over the last few years, it was very occasionally. The blood tests came back low. If it wasn’t for Isabella’s condition, we might never have known.”

Entering the impersonal white room, and watching the beautiful, vulnerable, crying woman curled up on her side, tucked under yellow blankets, he realized something fundamental that day.

He was with Izzy because he deserved her. A man like him wasn’t made for the likes of Vanessa McNamara. Her sobs only got worse when she saw him.

Charles sat next to the woman he used to love.

He had so many questions. Why, mostly. Just…why? How, since when? And who had called the hospital for her? How could he make her better?

He’d caused this. He knew it now. Izzy had never wanted him to enlist. From the very start, she’d been against it, stressed about living without him for so long, terrified about losing him for good.

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