Rhys returned home in a daze, turning the key in the lock three times before finally opening the door–a motion he’d performed for five years, yet today it suddenly felt unfamiliar.
“Daddy!” Noah ran barefoot from his room, asking, “Where’s Mommy? I’m hungry!”
He mechanically patted Noah’s head, his gaze sweeping across the empty living room–one of Viv’s favorite mugs was missing, and her white sneakers that she wore often had’disappeared from the shoe rack.
“Your mom,” his throat tightened before he let out a cold laugh and continued, “She’s just throwing a tantrum. She’ll be back soon!”
Then, as if talking to himself, he added, “The way she is, how could she possibly leave us behind?”
Noah tilted his head and questioned, “Daddy, why are all Mommy’s things gone?”
“What do kids understand!”
Rhys suddenly raised his voice, startling Noah before bursting into laughter, taking out a bottle of whiskey from the liquor cabinet, and pouring himself a full glass while declaring: “Your mom almost failed out of college. Her? Going to Cambridge? Hah!”
Rhys casually swirled the drink in his glass: “She’s just an ordinary housewife! Hasn’t left the house in years, and suddenly she thinks she can go that far? Does she have the guts? She’s nothing without me! Nothing!”
Noah timidly tugged at his sleeve, asking, “Daddy, when is Mommy coming back to make dinner?”
“What’s the rush?” Rhys irritably yanked off his tie and tossed it aside. “She’ll be back in three days tops, crying and begging for my forgiveness.”
With that, he threw back the entire glass of whiskey, the alcohol burning his throat but failing to extinguish the nameless rage in his chest.
At that time, his phone screen lit up with a message from Melody:
[I love the bag, Rhys! Let me treat you to dinner tomorrow!]
Normally, he would have replied instantly, but now, staring at that pink heart emoji attached at the end, he suddenly remembered that Viv never used such symbols–she always ended her messages with proper periods, as boring as her personality.
“Daddy!” Noah suddenly came screaming from the master bedroom, waving a piece of paper. “Mommy left a note!”
Rhys snatched it from him, finding only a few terse lines:
14.05
Screw You, Ex! My New Life’s Hotter Than Your Money!
312
thapter 3
[Rhys, Noah’s vaccination records until age five are in the third drawer of the study.J
He’s allergic to mangoes and needs warm milk before bed.]
[And don’t let Melody touch him–she’s already neglected three of her own cats to death.1
The handwriting was meticulously neat, almost painfully so, with no signature or emotion–just like a handover checklist.
“What a performance!” he crumpled the note viciously, then neurotically smoothed it out again.
“Does she think this will scare me?”
His phone suddenly vibrated with a bank notification: [Your transfer of $500,000.00 to Viv from account ending 8888 has been returned. Balance…]
“Fuck!”
Rhys smashed his glass against the wall, glass shards exploding like a dangerous flower across the floor.
He’d transferred that money this morning–he’d been more than generous, so what more did Viv want?
She returned it? Fine, let her be stubborn! She’d better not expect him to be so accommodating when she came crawling back!
“Daddy…” Noah started crying, frightened by his sudden outburst. “I want Mommy!”
“Shut up!” he roared, red–eyed.
“Your mother is useless! Without me, she doesn’t even have rent money! What can she do with that pathetic design firm salary? She…”
His words suddenly caught in his throat as he remembered accidentally seeing Viv’s pay stub last month–wasn’t that figure actually a third higher than the allowance he gave her?
The alcohol surging through him, he stumbled to the study and roughly yanked open the drawer.
In there, Viv’s design award certificates were neatly stacked, with the gold–embossed “RIBA International Architecture Award” on top stinging his eyes.
“Take! All fake!” he muttered obsessively, then suddenly noticed a printed flight itinerary beneath the certificates.
