Page 38 of Power Games

Izzy had every right to be mad right now, so he'd let her get away with the shouting and throwing things on the floor, but enough was enough.

"Isabella!" he shouted back. "You spent two hours practically pole-dancing on a bunch of men in front of me. I danced for ten minutes with a friend, an acquaintance that you know I've never touched."

"Oh, bullshit Charles. Don’t pretend I’m the problem," she hissed. "I’ve seen you, staring at that posh slut all night. You haven’t looked at me that way for a decade—that’s our issue. Our issue is that one phone call from her makes you look like a child on Christmas morning. Don't you pretend you haven't fucked her. I know I'm not perfect, but at least I don't lie."

The neighbors were going to end up calling the cops if this didn't end soon.

"I've never lied to you. Why would I? You demanded an open relationship and I obliged for six years. If I had fucked Vanessa, it would have been with your blessing. But I haven't. I haven't ever touched, or kissed her. She's just not...."

Not what, not interested? The words wouldn't cross his lips. He wasn't sure they were true.

Charles had never asked himself whether Vanessa was interested in him. He refused to consider it. A no would make him feel like shit, and a yes would have been infinitely worse.

He ended his sentence with, That kind of woman."

"Oh please," Izzy said, rolling her eyes. "She has a cunt like the rest of us."

"Some women don't see the necessity of sharing theirs with quite as many guys as you, Izzy."

"Why are we doing this, Charles?" she asked out of the blue. Her tone wasn't angry anymore. It was exasperated.

"Fighting?"

"No, staying together. Why aren't we divorced by now? It should be clear that you don't love me, and honestly, I can't stand the “High and Mighty, I'm Better Than You” man you've become. So, why are we bothering?"

He couldn't believe his ears.

They were bothering because he'd wanted to help her for the last year. They were bothering because it was working. She was sober. They went to the doctor regularly, and she'd been clean for months. They were bothering because she was a vulnerable woman in need of support and he hadn't wanted to abandon her when she'd needed someone, anyone.

Instead of pointing all that out, he found himself asking, "Are you open to a divorce?"

"Please," she replied emphatically.

He couldn't believe his ears.

"We aren't suited, Charles. There's no shame in admitting that we made an error."

"You have a fallback," he guessed. That was the only thing that made sense. She had a replacement in mind, someone she liked more than him.

"And you don't?" she spat.

Good point.

Charles sighed.

"We need to talk. I have a meeting in the morning, and we can think in the afternoon. Tomorrow evening, when neither you nor I have had quite so much champagne, we'll meet and speak. We need to discuss this, and see if it's the best course of action in your condition."

"I'm just fine."

"You're better," he admitted. "But we should speak to your doctor, and your sponsor at the clinic, too."

She nodded. "Yeah, we can do that. And talk to lawyers. I don't want your money."

"You'll have money," Charles assured her.

He moved to grab his wallet and phone from the floor, put his tux jacket back on, and closed the distance between himself and his wife, pressing his lips on the side of her head.

"And you'll have this place." She'd chosen the high-rise apartment anyway. It didn't quite suit him. "And you'll also have my friendship. I'm not leaving you."

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