Year three: he stopped saying “our house” and began saying “my house.” The car became “my car.” His business, funded entirely by her, became “what I’m building.” He told her once over breakfast, without malice in his tone and therefore more effectively, “You don’t really contribute, Viv. You waitress a little. I’m the one carrying this family.”
Year four: the feedback hardened into contempt. He came home later. Smelled wrong. Took calls outside. Ate meals without gratitude. When she asked where he had been, he said, “Working. Something you wouldn’t understand.” Then he would hand her his jacket and ask what was for dinner.
Vivien could have ended it at any point.
One call to Benedict, and Preston’s business would vanish from under him like a rug yanked by an invisible hand. But every time she came close, she remembered the parking lot. The grocery bags. The warmth of his hand at the back of her neck on the night they got engaged. The tender version of him that still appeared in flashes when he was pleased, rested, or being watched.
Hope is one of the cruelest anesthetics in the world.
Year five: Preston hired Tiffany Blake as his executive assistant.