Chapter 239
CMWMBB 41
VENUS
Spiralling shouts. Grief whispers. Grief folds itself into corners, aches in places no one bothers to look. Spiralling is a spectacle. It leaks. It demands witnesses.
Andrea didn’t want my pain.
She wanted my collapse.
So I gave her one she could believe.
The first photograph appeared three days after the museum quiet settled into the house.
I didn’t see it when it was taken.
I felt it.
The bar was small, tucked between a florist and a closed tailor’s shop downtown. Not trendy. Not hidden. Just forgettable enough to be useful. The kind of place where people drank to disappear, not to be seen.
I sat alone at the counter.
That was important.
No entourage. No friends. No Gianna. No Sabine. I told security to wait outside. I’d said it calmly, with a tired smile, like a woman who couldn’t stand being watched one second longer.
They hesitated.
I snapped.
“Do you want to be the reason I make a scene?” I asked, sharp enough that the bartender flinched.
They backed off.
Good.
I ordered whiskey. Neat. I didn’t sip. I didn’t savour. I swallowed it like medicine.
I let my shoulders slump. Let my posture collapse. Let my gaze drift unfocused across the mirror behind the bar.
I stayed long enough.
Long enough for someone to notice.
Long enough for a phone to come out.
I left alone.
Head down. Coat half-buttoned. Hair loose-wrong, and unfamiliar.
When I stepped out onto the sidewalk, the flash caught me mid-blink, my expression caught between exhaustion and something sharper.
Unstable.
By morning, the image was everywhere it needed to be.
Not splashed. Not front-page.
Whispered.
Aaron Sinclair’s wife was spotted alone at a bar.
Sources say she’s been drinking more since the kidnapping.
Marriage strain rumoured.
The second incident was less planned.
That was important too.
You couldn’t spiral perfectly. That looked fake.
It happened in the driveway.
Security had rerouted the cars again-new protocol, new rotation. One of the guards tried to explain it to me, voice careful, deferential.
I didn’t let him finish.
“I didn’t ask for this,” I snapped, loud enough that Rosemary froze mid-step behind me. “I asked for
“Yes, ma’am, but Mr. Sinclair p>
my
car p>
“I am not a child,” I cut in. “And you don’t get to talk to me like I am p>
The guard stiffened. “I wasn’t p>
“Move,” I said, pointing. “Now p>
Someone was filming.
I saw it out of the corner of my eye-a phone raised, lowered too late.
I didn’t stop.
I slammed the door. Tires screamed as I pulled away.
The third blow landed where it mattered most to Aaron.
The Sinclair Group’s charity summit had been scheduled for months-a high-profile event, donors flying in,
2/6
press guaranteed. My attendance had been listed on the program. My speech had been drafted, approved, and rehearsed.
I didn’t go.
I didn’t call.
I didn’t send apologies.
I shut my phone off and curled on the bathroom floor, Iris’s sweater clutched like a talisman.
Sabine had tried. Gianna too. Quiet conversations in hallways, gentle hands on my arm, voices lowered like they could coax me back from the edge. I brushed them off. Smiled when I had to. Cut them short when I couldn’t. They meant well, but meaning well wasn’t enough. And when Connor came, it wasn’t gentle anymore. It was sharp, insistent, impossible to ignore.
“They’re saying you’re unstable. That Aaron’s distracted. That he can’t even p>
“Control me?” I finished quietly.
He didn’t deny it. His silence was confirmation enough.
I nodded. “Good p>
Connor blinked, disbelief flashing across his face. “Good? Venus, do you hear yourself p>
“Connor,” I said. “Please p>
He stepped closer, lowering his voice, as if proximity might soften the blow. “Aaron’s getting hit from all sides because of this. The board, the press, the donors—they’re circling. And he’s still out there every night, chasing leads, chasing ghosts, trying to bring Iris home p>
“I know p>
“And you’re okay with that?” His voice cracked, anger and grief tangled together. “You think this helps him? You think this circus makes it easier p>
No.
“Did he put you up to this p>
“No,” he said flatly. “Aaron won’t say anything, but I will. What are you doing, Venus? This won’t end well-for you, for Aaron, for your children.” He paused, eyes burning. “You’re not grieving. You’re spiraling and dragging him with you p>
I held his stare, refusing to flinch. “It’s none of your business, Connor p>
“Oh, but it is.” His voice rose, raw now. “I’ve known Aaron far longer than you have. I’ve seen him fight through storms you can’t imagine. And right now, you’re destroying him p>
I laughed bitterly. “So easy for everyone to judge me. Back off, Connor. Your pathetic idea of an intervention has failed p>
3/6
The next morning, the silence changed.
It wasn’t distant anymore.
It was charged.
He was in the kitchen, newspaper folded open on the counter, untouched coffee going cold beside it. I walked in wearing sweatpants and an old sweater, hair unbrushed, eyes rimmed red from a night of deliberately poor sleep.
He looked up slowly.
“People are talking p>
I turned to face him then, leaning back against the counter. “People always talk p>
“This isn’t gossip, Venus,” he said. “This is damaging p>
“To the brand?” I asked.
His eyes flickered.
That was all it took.
“God,” I breathed, a bitter laugh escaping before I could stop it. “That’s what you’re worried about p>
“I’m worried about you,” he said immediately.
“No, you’re worried about Sinclair Group optics,” I shot back. “About donors. About headlines p>
“That’s not fair p>
“Isn’t it?” I stepped closer, heat rising fast, reckless now because I needed Andrea to believe this part too. ” When was the last time you asked me how I was without checking your phone halfway through p>
He flinched.
“Venus p>
“Our daughter is gone,” I said, voice breaking. “And you’re treating PR fallout like the emergency p>
“That’s not what this is,” he said tightly.
“Then what is it?” I demanded. “Because from where I’m standing, you’ve decided it’s easier to manage a company than face the fact that you couldn’t protect Iris.
The words landed.
I felt them hit him.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t defend himself.
Didn’t say a word.
4/6
Nthe
That silence-the refusal to fight back-only fed the fire.
“You don’t even fight back,” I said, anger and grief knotted so tightly I couldn’t tell them apart. “You just shut down and call it stability. You think if you keep everything neat and quiet, it’ll hurt less p>
“That’s not true,” he said softly.
“Then say it,” I challenged. “Say you’re not more worried about your business than your child p>
He looked at me for a long, terrible second.
And said nothing.
That broke something in me.
I laughed-sharp, brittle, and ugly. “Unbelievable p>
I turned and grabbed my coat.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Out,” I snapped.
“Venus, don’t p>
I yanked the door open.
“You don’t get to manage me,” I said, voice shaking now despite myself. “Not anymore p>
I stepped outside and slammed the door hard enough that the walls shuddered.
I stood there for a moment, breath ragged, heart pounding, knowing-knowing-that someone was watching, that this argument would be overheard, misinterpreted, reported.
Good.
Let Andrea hear it.
Let her believe Aaron was unraveling and I was burning down around him.
I walked to the car without looking back.
Behind the closed door, I knew Aaron was standing exactly where I’d left him.
Silent.
Wounded.
Still refusing to choose between me and the lie I was living for our daughter.
And as I drove away, tears blurring the road ahead, one truth settled heavy and irreversible in
my
chest:
This wasn’t an act anymore.
It was the cost.
Ruby Walker
Ruby Walker is a rising voice in the world of romance and spicy fiction. With a gift for weaving deep emotions, sizzling chemistry, and unexpected twists, her stories are a blend of passion and drama that captivate readers from start to finish. Ruby’s writing style is bold and irresistible—perfect for those who crave intense, addictive love stories.