Page 5 of The Rehoboth Retreat
Miles didn’t answer right away, but I could feel himnodding on the other end. “Thanks, Mom,” he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “It means a lot to hear that.”
I smiled to myself, my eyes glancing over the impeccably styled and arranged flowers in my garden. “Of course. You’re my son. I’ll always be here for you. And remember, you’re so much stronger than you think. You’ll bounce back from this, just like you always do. I know it.”
“Yeah…” he said, sounding a bit lighter. “Thanks, Mom. I’ll talk to you soon. Oh. Also, can you refrain from discussing this with anyone else? Owen at least agreed to not go public with our divorce until I was ready to. I’ve been strategizing with my publicist on the right time to release the news. We’re going to give it a few weeks.”
“Of course, sweetie. I wouldn’t tell a soul. Now go take care of yourself, okay?” I cooed, my voice the picture of maternal concern. “And remember, this is just ablipin the grand scheme of your wonderful life. You’re better than this. Always have been.”
As I hung up the phone, I sat back in my chair, savoring the last sip of my Bloody Mary. I could already feel the calmness returning, my shoulders relaxing. Miles would be fine. He was stronger than he realized. And I would be there for him, just as I always had been.
I looked around my estate, the beauty of it all settling into my blood. My life, despite the minor setbacks, wasperfect. It was my time now—time to relax, to enjoy the fruits of my labor. I took a deep breath, smiling to myself.
What a life,I thought. And it was all mine.
Miles
I feel like I’m living in some half-reality. Nothing feels like it’s really mine anymore, not in the way it used to. I’ve always been on top of it—focused, organized, sharp. My business empire, built on the back of meticulous planning and unyielding perfection, has always been my life.
But lately?
I can’t seem to get anything right. The once-precise flow of my days—back-to-back meetings, dinner parties, client calls—has become a fog of distraction.
Owen’s face—his betrayal—keeps creeping into my mind, clouding my thoughts. How could he do this? How could he cheat on me and walk away like it was no big deal?
I grip the edge of my desk, feeling a familiar weight pressing down on me. I glance at the clock. It’s almost noon, but I haven’t gotten half of what I’d planned for the morning done. My calendar is a mess. My to-do list is sitting there, untouched. I try to focus, but all I can think about iswhat’s next?
Divorce is such an inconvenient, messy thing. I never thought I’d be here at the age of forty-one, figuring out how to get back into the dating market of relationships. After everything with Owen, I can’t even stomach the thought of swiping through gay dating apps. The idea of speed dating makes my skin crawl. All of it is so…unbecoming. Not me at all.
And blind dates? Please. A part of me wants to scream out of frustration—this wasn’t supposed to be my life. I wasn’t supposed to be starting over again at this age. Not with everything I’ve worked for, not with everything I’ve built.
And yet, here I am.
Ilean back in my chair, staring out the window at my colorful garden below. The sunlight catches the leaves of the trees just so, casting long shadows over the lawn. It’s the same lawn I’ve always had, kept neat by a team of gardeners and me. Everything is as it should be, and yet nothing feels right. My heart beats in my chest in a steady rhythm, but it feels out of place now, as though it doesn’t belong with me anymore. I’m not even sure what I belong to anymore.
The sound of my phone buzzing on the desk pulls me from my thoughts. I glance down, and of course, it’s a forwarded email from Owen’s lawyer.
I sigh, trying to push down the frustration that rises in my chest. They’ve been so insistent about the terms of the divorce. The back-and-forth, the legalese, the paperwork—it’s all so…cold. My lawyer advised me not to contact Owen, saying that everything must go through them. Owen and I agreed that he would keep the New Jersey house, and I’d take the Rehoboth Beach house, along with Topper, our Jack Russell Terrier. It was a no-brainer for me. I could easily find another similar house in New Jersey, but I absolutely loved the location of our Rehoboth Beach house. I would’ve preferred something more amicable, but here we are. Owen wanted to act like this was all so simple, and yet the weight of it was suffocating.
The following morning, I woke up to the harsh reality that my life wasn’t quite as perfect as I’d spent years convincing myself it was. After a restless night, tossing and turning, I finally dragged myself out of bed, my mind still preoccupied with the weight of everything that had been going wrong. The divorce. The betrayal. The realization that nothing was as secure as I’d once thought it to be. And now, as I stared at the clock, I realized I had an appointment with Dr. Harris that I had been dreading. My blood panel results were in. I had to go.
I dressed quickly in my usual immaculate manner—tailored pants, a crisp shirt, swiftlystyled hair. I stared at myself in the mirror as I buttoned my cuffs, wondering if anyone could tell that my confidence had begun to fray at the edges. I’d always been able to rely on my anal retentiveness, but right now, it felt like the very thing that kept me together was starting to unravel.
The clinic was only a few miles away, so I drove there in no time. The air was brisk, and the sun was just beginning to shine through the clouds as I parked. As I made my way into the waiting area, the sterile whiteness of the clinic hit me immediately. The walls were stark, too bright, and the faint smell of antiseptic hung in the air, mingling with the stale scent of polished floors. The fluorescent lights buzzed above me as I approached the receptionist, a middle-aged woman with a kind but distant expression.
“Hi, Mr. Whitaker,” she said as she handed me a clipboard. “Just the usual paperwork today. Please fill this out, and the doctor will be with you shortly. Is your insurance still the same?”
“Yes.” I nodded absently, taking the clipboard and sitting in one of the stiff plastic chairs. It wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly, but it was hard to ignore the clinical atmosphere that seemed to magnify the nervous flutter in my chest. I filled out the forms and returned them before sitting back, nervously tapping the pen I’d forgotten to return against the edge of the armrest. There was no escape from this moment. I could already feel the anticipation building in the pit of my stomach.
A few minutes later, the door to the waiting area opened, and Dr. Harris appeared.
“Mr. Whitaker,” he greeted me, his voice smooth, his demeanor calm and collected as always. Dr. Harris had been my primary care physician for years. He was a man in his mid-fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and a reassuring, fatherly presence. He was always professional, and something about him made me feel at ease. That was until now. His expression today was softer than usual, moreconcerned.
“Hello, Dr. Harris,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady as I stood and followed him into the exam room. It was the same room I’d been in countless times before. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic, as it always did. The hum of the fluorescent lights above was louder in here, a constant reminder of my anxiety.
Dr. Harris gestured for me to sit, and I did so, my hands automatically smoothing out the wrinkles in my pants. He sat down in front of me, his clipboard in hand.
“Well, Miles,” he began, his voice steady but with a tinge of concern. “It seems that your cholesterol levels are a bit higher than we’d like.” He paused. “You’re dealing with slight hypercholesteremia.”
The word hit me like a ton of bricks. I blinked, trying to digest what he had just said.
