Chapter 3 - Vanessa Finally Told Me the Truth
I agreed to meet Vanessa Cole in the least glamorous place I could think of.
A twenty-four-hour diner near Lincoln Park.
No private room.
No velvet ropes.
No celebrity entrance.
Just cracked red booths, old coffee, fluorescent lighting, and a waitress who called everyone honey.
Vanessa arrived wearing oversized sunglasses and a baseball cap.
Even disguised, she looked like someone who belonged on a screen.
She slid into the booth across from me.
“Thank you for coming.”
“I haven't decided whether that was a mistake.”
“Fair.”
A waitress appeared.
Vanessa ordered coffee.
I ordered nothing.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then I said, “You told me Daniel was protecting a secret.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me.”
Vanessa removed her sunglasses.
There were dark circles beneath her eyes.
“When Daniel and I were twenty-two, his father nearly had me killed.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
She gave a humorless laugh.
“That's approximately how Daniel reacted when he found out.”
The Blackwood family had never been warm.
Daniel's father, Thomas Blackwood, had died six years earlier.
I had met him only twice.
Both times, he treated me like furniture.
Vanessa wrapped both hands around her coffee cup.
“Daniel and I were together during college. He loved me. I loved him. We were stupid enough to think that mattered.”
“What happened?”
“Thomas decided I was a distraction.”
I felt cold.
“He offered me money to disappear. I refused.”
“That sounds like him.”
“He didn't appreciate refusal.”
Vanessa looked toward the window.
“One night, I was driving home. A car forced me off the road.”
My stomach dropped.
“You think his father arranged it?”
“I know he did.”
“How?”
“Because Daniel found out.”
She swallowed.
“He confronted Thomas. They fought. Daniel left home for almost six months.”
I had never heard this story.
Not once.
“Why didn't Daniel tell me?”
“Because he promised me he wouldn't.”
“Why would you ask him to hide something like that?”
“Because my father was alive then. My younger sister was fifteen. Thomas made it clear that if the story became public, people close to me could suffer.”
Her eyes met mine.
“Daniel promised he would keep us safe.”
I struggled to understand.
“And that's why he comes whenever you call?”
“Partly.”
“Partly?”
Vanessa looked ashamed.
“After Thomas died, the danger should have ended. But by then Daniel and I had developed... a pattern.”
“What kind of pattern?”
“He felt responsible for me.”
Of course.
That sounded exactly like Daniel.
Responsibility was a language he understood.
Love was more difficult.
“If something happened on set, I called him. If my manager stole from me, I called him. When I had a stalker three years ago, Daniel arranged security.”
“While we were married.”
“Yes.”
I stared at her.
“And you never thought his wife might find that inappropriate?”
Vanessa lowered her eyes.
“I did.”
“Yet you continued.”
“Yes.”
At least she wasn't lying.
I leaned back.
“The headlines?”
Her mouth tightened.
“I could have stopped some of them.”
“Some?”
“Most.”
Anger rose in me.
“Why didn't you?”
For the first time, Vanessa looked directly ashamed.
“Because part of me liked knowing he still came.”
There it was.
The truth I had expected.
She continued quickly.
“I knew he loved you.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“That's difficult to believe.”
“Daniel talked about you constantly before you married.”
I almost laughed.
“That must have stopped.”
“It didn't.”
I stared at her.
Vanessa shook her head.
“You think you were invisible to him. You weren't.”
“He had an interesting way of showing it.”
“I didn't say he was a good husband.”
That silenced me.
Vanessa traced the rim of her coffee cup.
“He told me about the first apartment you designed. He showed me photographs of the garden you planted at the mansion. He complained that you refused to let his chef make pancakes because you said his pancakes were ‘too elegant.’”
Despite myself, I smiled faintly.
I had said that.
“He carried a photograph of you in his wallet.”
“Past tense?”
“He probably still does.”
“Then why treat me like I was always second?”
Vanessa's expression softened.
“Because Daniel is very good at protecting people from bullets and very bad at protecting them from himself.”
I looked away.
That sounded too accurate.
“There is something else,” she said.
My stomach tightened again.
“What?”
“In New York, two weeks ago... I kissed him.”
Everything inside me stopped.
Vanessa spoke quickly.
“He didn't kiss me back.”
“That doesn't make me feel better.”
“I know.”
“When?”
“The night he arrived.”
“The night after my accident?”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
Perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
“What happened?”
“I was emotional. He had spent hours dealing with lawyers because the studio was trying to bury what happened. I kissed him.”
“And?”
“He pushed me away.”
I opened my eyes.
“Immediately?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn't he tell me?”
“Because I begged him not to.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Of course you did.”
“I was ashamed.”
“And he protected you.”
“Yes.”
“Again.”
Vanessa's eyes filled with tears.
“I am sorry.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“You spent years enjoying rumors that humiliated me.”
“Yes.”
“You kissed my husband while our marriage was falling apart.”
“Yes.”
“And now you're telling me because... what? Your conscience suddenly appeared?”
Her face hardened slightly.
“No. I'm telling you because Daniel finally told me he was done protecting my feelings at the expense of yours.”
That surprised me.
“When?”
“After Michael's wedding.”
She reached into her purse and removed her phone.
“He told me not to call him unless there was a genuine emergency. He transferred the security arrangements he had been managing to his company. He told my publicist to correct every false story linking us romantically.”
She pushed the phone toward me.
A message from Daniel appeared on the screen.
I should have established boundaries years ago. Emily paid the price for my guilt toward you, and that was unfair to both of you. I will always make sure you are safe, but I will not continue a relationship that disrespects my wife.
My wife.
The words hurt.
I pushed the phone away.
“It's late.”
Vanessa nodded.
“I know.”
“I asked him for this years ago.”
“I know.”
“And he waited until I left.”
“I know.”
I hated how often she said that.
“Then why are you here?”
“Because there is another reason the press kept connecting us.”
I looked at her.
Vanessa lowered her voice.
“Someone paid my former publicist to keep the rumors alive.”
My anger faded.
“What?”
“I found out last night.”
“Who?”
“I don't know. Not yet.”
She opened another message.
A series of financial transfers.
Names I didn't recognize.
“I fired my publicist this morning. Before she left, she told me she'd been paid for three years to tip photographers whenever Daniel and I were in the same city.”
“By whom?”
“She wouldn't say.”
I stared at the screen.
A bad feeling formed in my stomach.
“Does Daniel know?”
“No.”
“Why tell me first?”
Vanessa hesitated.
“Because whoever did this didn't just want publicity.”
“What did they want?”
“To damage his marriage.”
The diner suddenly felt colder.
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
That night, I called Rebecca.
She listened quietly.
“Does this change your decision?” she asked.
“No.”
“You're certain?”
“Yes.”
And I was.
Learning Daniel hadn't cheated did not erase the years of neglect.
Learning Vanessa manipulated the press did not excuse the fact that Daniel ignored my pain.
A marriage could die without adultery.
Sometimes abandonment happened one unanswered phone call at a time.
But the mystery bothered me.
Who had spent years deliberately feeding the impression that Daniel was unfaithful?
The next morning, I received flowers.
Not roses.
Tulips.
Yellow.
My favorite.
There was no expensive card.
Only Daniel's handwriting.
I owe you apologies, not flowers. These are not an apology. I just remembered you like them.
D.
I stared at the note for a long time.
Then I put the flowers in water.
I did not call him.
Two days later, I returned to work.
Before marrying Daniel, I had been an architectural restoration designer.
I loved old buildings.
Not because they were beautiful.
Because they carried scars.
Fire damage.
Cracked stone.
Water stains.
Bad renovations.
Every old structure told a story about what it had survived.
During my marriage, I gradually stopped taking projects.
Security complications made site visits difficult.
Daniel's schedule consumed mine.
Charity boards demanded time.
Blackwood events demanded more.
Somewhere between being Daniel's wife and Mrs. Blackwood, I stopped being Emily Carter.
So I called my former business partner, Hannah Price.
“I want back in.”
She was silent for three seconds.
Then screamed.
Within a week, I had a desk.
Within two, I had my first project: restoration of a historic hotel near the river.
Daniel learned about it because nothing involving my name remained private for long.
He called.
I almost ignored him.
Then answered.
“Hello?”
“You're working with Price Restoration again.”
“Yes.”
Silence.
“You always loved that.”
I looked at the blueprints in front of me.
“I did.”
“I should have encouraged you.”
“Yes.”
Another silence.
The old Daniel would have defended himself.
The new Daniel apparently had discovered the word yes.
“I won't interfere,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Is the site secure?”
I sighed.
“Daniel.”
“I said I wouldn't interfere. I didn't say I stopped worrying.”
“Normal people manage construction sites every day.”
“You are not—”
He stopped himself.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
I smiled despite myself.
“You were about to say I'm not normal.”
“I was about to say your last name creates complications.”
“For now.”
Silence again.
“You really intend to finish this.”
“Yes.”
His voice became quieter.
“Okay.”
No argument.
No command.
He hung up.
That should have made things simpler.
It didn't.
Because Daniel becoming the man I had asked him to be after I left was almost crueler than if he had remained unchanged.
Three days later, someone broke into my apartment.
Nothing valuable disappeared.
Not my laptop.
Not jewelry.
Not cash.
Instead, every drawer had been opened.
Every closet searched.
Papers scattered.
Boxes emptied.
Someone had been looking for something.
I stood in the doorway with police behind me and felt my stomach turn.
Then I saw it.
On my kitchen counter.
My wedding ring.
I had left it at the mansion.
Now it was sitting inside my apartment.
Beside it was a folded piece of paper.
May you like
One sentence had been typed across the center.
YOU SHOULD HAVE STAYED MARRIED TO HIM.
