Updated Nov 23, 2025 • ~9 min read
Charlie didn’t call the next day.
I texted him twice—once in the morning, once at lunch. Both messages went unanswered, leaving me to spiral through worst-case scenarios while pretending to focus on the Henderson presentation.
“Earth to Roselyn?” Hayley waved a hand in front of my face. “The client asked about color palettes three times.”
I snapped back to reality, forcing a smile at the video conference. “Sorry. I was thinking forest green with gold accents might—”
My phone buzzed. Charlie.
We need to talk. Tonight. My place.
My stomach dropped. Nothing good ever followed “we need to talk.”
I have a work dinner. Can we do tomorrow?
The lie tasted bitter, but I couldn’t handle Charlie and Jeremy in the same night.
Cancel it. This can’t wait.
I stared at the message, anxiety crawling up my throat. The Henderson client was still talking, but all I could hear was white noise.
“Roselyn?” Hayley’s concerned voice. “Are you okay?”
“I need five minutes.” I left the conference room, ignoring the confused looks.
In the bathroom, I splashed cold water on my face, ruining my makeup but not caring. My phone rang. Charlie.
“Hey,” I answered.
“Who is he?” No greeting. No warmth. Just accusation.
“Who is—”
“I did some research. Jeremy Patterson. Tech CEO worth somewhere north of fifty million. Featured in Forbes, TechCrunch, every major business publication.” His voice was tight. “You were married to a multimillionaire?”
“He wasn’t worth anything when we married—”
“That’s not the point! The point is you downplayed your entire marriage. ‘It didn’t work out,’ you said. ‘We were too young,’ you said. You never mentioned he was brilliant, successful, and apparently still obsessed with you!”
“Charlie, please—”
“I looked at photos, Rose. Old ones, from when you were together. The way he looked at you…” He laughed bitterly. “I’ve never seen that kind of intensity. Like you were the only person in the room. In the world.”
“That was five years ago—”
“And yesterday? When he showed up at your office? Did he look at you the same way?”
Yes. God, yes.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I want the truth! Are you still in love with him?”
“No!” The word came out too quick, too defensive.
“You hesitated.”
“I didn’t—”
“You did. Just now. There was a full second before you answered.” His breathing was ragged. “Cancel your dinner plans tonight. Come here. We’ll talk this through.”
My heart raced. I didn’t have dinner plans. Except—
My phone buzzed. Another text. Unknown number.
Dinner tonight. Seven. Franco’s on Michigan. We need to discuss next steps. I’ll send a car. -J
My blood ran cold. “How did you know I have dinner plans?”
“I didn’t. I was testing you.” Charlie’s voice went deadly quiet. “Who is it with?”
I could lie. Should lie.
“Jeremy. To discuss the divorce.”
Silence. Long, terrible silence.
“You’re having dinner with your husband,” Charlie said finally, each word careful and cold.
“Ex-husband. To handle legal—”
“Does he know about me? Really know?”
“Of course—”
“Does he know I proposed on Navy Pier? That we picked out flowers for the wedding? That you sleep in my old Northwestern t-shirt?” His voice cracked. “Does he know that you’re mine?”
The possessiveness should have been reassuring. Instead, it felt suffocating.
“Charlie, you’re the one I’m engaged to. You’re the one I’m building a future with. This thing with Jeremy is just paperwork.”
“Then why do I feel like I’m losing you?”
Because maybe you are, a traitorous voice whispered.
“You’re not,” I said firmly. “I love you. We’re getting married in eight weeks. Nothing changes that.”
“Everything changes that.” He exhaled slowly. “Go to your dinner. Handle your paperwork. But Rose? When it’s done, you need to decide. Him or me. The past or the future. Because I can’t compete with a ghost.”
“You’re not competing—”
“Aren’t I?” He hung up.
I stood in the bathroom, phone pressed to my cheek, wanting to scream.
This was exactly what Jeremy wanted. The chaos. The doubt. The wedge driven between Charlie and me.
Fury replaced despair.
I texted Jeremy: I’ll be there. But this is a business meeting. Nothing more.
His response was immediate: Of course. Just business. Wear the red dress.
I stared at the message. How did he know I had a red dress?
Then I remembered—I’d worn it to our anniversary dinner. The last one before everything fell apart.
He remembered.
Of course he remembered.
At 6:45, a sleek black car pulled up outside my building. The driver held a sign: “Mrs. Patterson.”
Not Ms. Greenwood. Mrs. Patterson.
The subtle reminder that legally, I was still his.
I almost turned around. Almost went back upstairs, called Charlie, begged him to forgive me for this insanity.
But I climbed in anyway, letting the leather seats swallow me as Chicago blurred past the tinted windows.
Franco’s was elegant, expensive, exclusive. The kind of place that required reservations months in advance.
Jeremy was already there. Corner table, private, perfect view of the city lights. He stood when he saw me, his eyes traveling down my red dress with unmistakable heat.
“Roselyn.” His voice was rough. “You look stunning.”
“Let’s skip the compliments and get to business.”
“Can’t we do both?” He pulled out my chair. “Please. Sit.”
I sat. He settled across from me, close enough that I could smell his cologne—different from what he used to wear, but somehow familiar.
“Wine?” He gestured to the bottle already breathing.
“I shouldn’t.”
“One glass won’t hurt.” He poured anyway. “Château Margaux. I remember it was your favorite.”
It still was. I hated that he remembered.
I took a sip. It was perfect.
“Shall we order, or would you prefer to glare at me through appetizers?”
“I’d prefer to discuss why we’re really here.”
“We’re here because you’re my wife, and we haven’t had a meal together in five years.” He leaned back. “Humor me. One dinner. Then we’ll talk business.”
Against my better judgment, I relented.
We ordered. He remembered my allergies, my preferences, even the fact that I hated cilantro. Every small detail felt like a weapon designed to pierce my carefully constructed armor.
“You’ve done well for yourself,” he said once the waiter left. “Senior designer at Morrison Creative. Impressive portfolio. I especially liked the rebrand you did for Lakeside Hotels.”
“You researched my work?”
“I told you. I’ve been keeping tabs.” No shame. No apology. “You’re incredibly talented, Rose. You always were.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Why? It’s what I’ve always called you.”
“Exactly. That name belongs to a version of me that doesn’t exist anymore.”
His jaw tightened. “Doesn’t she? Or did you just bury her when you left?”
The food arrived before I could respond. We ate in charged silence.
“How did he propose?” Jeremy asked suddenly.
“What?”
“Charlie Morton. How did he propose?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“I’m your husband. It’s absolutely my business.” He took a sip of wine. “Navy Pier, wasn’t it? I saw the photos on your Instagram before you made it private.”
My skin prickled. “You’re following my Instagram?”
“I never unfollowed. You blocked me, but I have other ways.” He said it so casually. “Did you cry?”
“What?”
“When he proposed. Did you cry?”
I shouldn’t answer. But wine and exhaustion loosened my tongue. “Yes.”
“Happy tears?”
I hesitated.
“That’s what I thought.” Jeremy leaned forward. “When I proposed, you cried too. Do you remember what you said?”
I did. God help me, I did.
“You said yes. And then you said, ‘I was afraid you’d never ask.'” His blue eyes held mine. “Afraid, Rose. Not happy. Not excited. Afraid.”
“We were different people—”
“Were we? Or did we just stop trying?” He reached across the table, fingers grazing mine. “Tell me you don’t feel this. The pull. Tell me I’m the only one who’s been stuck for five years.”
I jerked my hand back. “You can’t do this.”
“Do what?”
“Rewrite history! We were wrong for each other. You worked constantly. I felt invisible. We fought more than we talked.”
“Because I was building something. For us. For our future.”
“You were building for yourself!” The words burst out. “Everything was about the company. I was just decorative. The wife who smiled at company parties and stayed quiet when you canceled date nights.”
“I was trying to give you the life you deserved.”
“I deserved a husband who came home!”
Silence crashed down. Other diners pretended not to notice.
Jeremy’s jaw clenched. “You’re right. I was a terrible husband. I failed you in every way that mattered.”
The admission knocked the wind from my sails.
“But I’ve changed,” he continued. “I’ve built the company. Made the money. And you know what I realized? None of it means anything without you.”
My heart hammered. “Jeremy—”
“I’m not asking you to forgive me. Not yet.” He pulled out a business card, slid it across. “But I am asking you to consider that maybe we both needed to grow into people who could make it work.”
I stared at the card. His personal number.
“Sign the papers,” I whispered. “Please.”
“No.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because five years ago, I let you walk away without fighting. I won’t make that mistake again.” He stood, dropped cash on the table. “The car will take you home. Think about what I said.”
“There’s nothing to think about. I’m marrying Charlie.”
“Are you?” He leaned down, breath ghosting my ear. “Then why are you here with me?”
He left before I could answer.
I sat alone, surrounded by the remains of our dinner, his question echoing.
Why was I here?
And why did it feel like coming home?
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