Chapter 3 What's Left Unsaid

Amelia didn’t bother waiting around for Carl to reappear. She stepped out of the revolving doors and let the cool Manhattan breeze wash over her. Carl could finish whatever call he was on — or whatever mood he was cultivating — without her standing by like a placeholder.

She walked a few blocks to the little sandwich shop she and Claire had always stopped at on busy downtown days. The place smelled of fresh bread, warm herbs, and toasted sourdough — a welcome contrast to the sterile chill of corporate hallways.

She ordered her usual roasted turkey on sourdough with crisp greens and took her time eating, savoring the quiet. It felt good to sit.

Even in her very high heels, even in the fitted black jumpsuit Carl hated, she felt… light. Free. More herself than she had felt in a long while.

After lunch, she wandered into a few boutiques nearby. She fingered soft autumn sweaters, skimmed new book releases, admired the way the jewelry displays sparkled under warm lights. Her nude coat draped elegantly around her, her citrusy-sweet perfume mixing lightly with the scents of candles and leather-bound journals.

She didn’t bring Ben.

She liked walking today — needed it. Needed the rhythm, the space, the chance to stretch her legs even if each stride clicked sharply in those heels that made the city her runway.

By the time she returned to Carl’s building, his black town car was already parked out front. Ben had her own car pulled in just behind it. He spotted her crossing the sidewalk, immediately stepping out to take the shopping bags from her hands.

“It’s alright, Ben,” Amelia said with a soft smile, adjusting the strap of her coat. “We’re just going to wait for Carl to come out.”

She slid into the back seat, setting her bags beside her.

Outside the window, the city moved on without her — people rushing, taxis honking, delivery bikes weaving through traffic. She scrolled through messages, clearing notifications, but her eyes kept drifting back to the building’s glass doors.

When Carl finally emerged, he spotted Ben instantly and frowned.

“Where’s Amelia?” he asked.

Ben moved to open her door. “Right here, sir.”

Amelia stepped out, smoothing her coat. “I had lunch since you practically forgot about me,” she said evenly. “Then I stopped in a few shops.”

Carl eyed the bags in her hand, then muttered, “You could’ve waited. I was busy.”

“I noticed,” Amelia replied. She gestured toward the town car. “Can we ride home together?”

Carl hesitated. His jaw tightened — barely. “Fine. But you know I prefer riding alone. Helps me collect my thoughts.”

Of course he did.

“Thank you, Ben,” Amelia said. “I’ll ride with Carl.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ben replied, giving a small nod before returning to her car.

Amelia slid into the back seat beside her husband.

She didn’t push.

Didn’t prod.

Didn’t try to start a conversation.

Carl was already on the phone before the driver even merged into traffic.

She watched the cityscape shift into suburbs, lights blurring into shadows, skyscrapers fading into quiet homes. Her chest felt tight, the silence between them thicker than the soft leather seats.

The wrought-iron gate opened as they approached home, revealing maple-lined paths and warm porch lights glowing against the early evening.

When the car stopped, Carl ended his call and said, “I’ll be back a little later.”

“I was going to make dinner,” Amelia said. “And I was hoping we could talk over it.”

“I’m not sure what time I’ll be back,” Carl said. “Don’t wait up.”

He said it casually, almost dismissively, like she had asked him about the weather.

Amelia nodded once. She kept her face composed — sweet, polite, the version of herself he preferred — but inside, there was nothing left to argue. She picked her battles, and lately, Carl simply wasn’t worth the effort. Every conversation ended the same: dismissive tone, drifting focus, half-listening. A man in love with the sound of his own importance.

Inside, she slipped off her heels in the entryway, lining them neatly on the mat. The house was warm but quiet — a heavier quiet than the city, pressing into her ribs.

She passed through the kitchen, where the slow cooker sat on the counter, filling the room with the rich, comforting scent of rosemary and garlic. Pot roast. Carrots. Potatoes. A meal she used to love making. A meal he used to love eating.

She settled onto one end of the sofa with a cup of chamomile tea and her iPad. The gala schedule glowed on the screen. She made quick edits, rearranged table assignments, answered last-minute emails.

The sound of the front door opening again broke her focus. Carl’s footsteps were deliberate, unhurried. He didn’t greet her. Didn’t glance her way. He went straight to the liquor cabinet, pulled out a heavy crystal glass, and poured gin over ice.

He took a long swallow.

“Carl, can we talk for a minute?” Amelia asked gently, still seated on the sofa, her iPad balanced on her knee.

He didn’t turn.

Didn’t acknowledge her.

“If this is about work,” he said, swirling the ice, “I’ve had enough of it today.”

“It’s about tomorrow,” she said, steady. “I just want to make sure you remembered — I have the gala in the evening. You put me in Bryson’s office, but I can’t stay late tomorrow night.”

Carl snorted. “That thing? Amelia, it’s just an excuse for rich people to pat themselves on the back.”

“It’s for the children’s arts education fund,” she reminded him. “We’ve raised—”

“I’m sure it’s very noble,” he cut in, still not facing her. “But it’s not real work.”

She swallowed, keeping her tone even. “I take the things I commit to seriously.”

“And I take my business seriously,” Carl shot back. “Which is why I thought you could actually be useful for once.”

“Without asking me first?” she asked quietly.

“You’ve got plenty of time on your hands,” he said with a shrug she could only see from behind. “And maybe now you’ll see what real work looks like.”

There it was again — the dismissal.

The condescension.

The ugly edge she used to think was stress but now saw for what it really was.

She took a slow breath. “Carl… I’m not staying late tomorrow. I’m going to the gala.”

Something in her tone — calm, firm, not asking — made him pause.

His shoulders stiffened.

That’s what turned him.

Not the gala.

Not the schedule.

Not even Bryson.

It was her saying it like a woman with a spine.

A woman not asking permission.

He finally whipped around.

His eyes dragged over her — the fitted black jumpsuit, the long sleeves, the neat bows at her ankles, the high heels, the nude coat draped on the chair.

He had seen it all day.

Driven her in it.

Watched her walk into Bryson’s office in it.

But now — after stewing for hours — it hit him full force.

“You really walked around all day dressed like that?” he snapped. “Shopping? Eating lunch? In front of everyone?”

Amelia blinked. “Carl—”

“That’s why you’re acting bold now?” His voice rose. “Because you strutted around the city looking like—”

“Carl,” she warned, “don’t.”

“Like a damn billboard,” he snarled. “Parading around in that jumpsuit and those ridiculous heels—who were you trying to impress? Bryson?”

Her breath caught — not in guilt, but in shock he’d even gone there.

“I dressed for myself,” she said firmly. “Not anyone else.”

“That’s not how this works!” he shouted.

He moved before he thought.

Before he breathed.

He hurled the glass.

It hit the wall just past her shoulder.

Shattering.

Gin splashing across the hardwood.

Shards skittering past her bare feet.

She flinched — not in fear, but pure instinct.

Carl pointed toward the broken glass. “Look what you made me do.”

Her jaw tightened.

Anger, clarity, hurt — all mixing at once.

“I didn’t make you do anything,” she said, voice low but unwavering. “You chose that.”

He glared at her, chest rising and falling with quick, heavy breaths.

For a moment, neither moved.

Then Carl scoffed and turned away as if the argument bored him now.

Then—without turning all the way around—

“Actually, I am hungry,” he said. “Fix me a plate. And clean this up while you’re at it,” he added, gesturing vaguely at the shattered glass on the floor. “I’m making myself another drink.”

Amelia stared at him.

Stared.

For a beat, she genuinely wasn’t sure if he was serious.

He was.

The disbelief curled through her chest so sharply she let out a soft, humorless scoff — the kind that said are you out of your damn mind?

“You want me,” she said slowly, “to step over broken glass YOU threw… to make YOU a plate… so YOU can have seconds on gin?”

Carl rolled his eyes. “Don’t make this a thing, Amelia. Just do it. And be careful. The floor’s a mess.”

Her mouth parted — not in shock, but in utter clarity.

“Oh, the floor’s a mess?” she repeated, her voice low, incredulous. “Carl, YOU threw the glass. Near ME. And now you think I’m going to pick up after you like nothing happened?”

He finally turned fully, irritation flickering across his face. “I’m not arguing with you,” Carl said, waving a dismissive hand. “Just do what I said.”

“No.”

Calm. Final. “No, Carl. I won’t.”

He blinked — genuinely startled by her refusal.

Amelia shifted her weight, eyes dropping briefly to the glittering mess around her feet. Shards of crystal caught the light like tiny knives. A large piece lay inches from her toes. Another sliver sparkled near the leg of the sofa. A thin crescent of glass rested right where she’d need to step to exit the living room.

She inhaled once, steadying herself, and lifted her gaze back to him.

“You can make your own plate,” she said quietly. “And clean your own mess. I’m not your maid. And I’m not your outlet for bad days.”

Carl scoffed. “Watch your tone.”

She stepped carefully — heel first, then toe — angling her foot between two jagged pieces.

“Oh, I think my tone is just fine,” she said. “For someone who just had a glass thrown in her direction.”

Another step.

Another shard avoided.

Her heart thudded, but her voice stayed steady.

“You threw that because you didn’t like how I talked to you,” she continued. “And now you want dinner like nothing happened?”

He opened his mouth, but she cut him off with a soft, disbelieving laugh.

“Unbelievable.”

Another careful step — she shifted her weight to avoid a particularly large, glittering fragment. The floor looked like a shattered constellation. One wrong move and she’d bleed.

She lifted her chin, her voice dropping low.

“And listen carefully, Carl,” she said.

“This is the last time I’ll warn you.”

His jaw twitched.

“If you ever throw something toward me again…”

She stepped over another shard, meeting his eyes with a cold, unblinking stare.

“…I will throw it back.”

A beat of silence ripped through the room.

Carl didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t dare.

Amelia took another slow, precise step around the debris. A shard snagged lightly against the side of her heel — she felt the faint scrape — but she kept going, refusing to show even a flicker of fear.

“You’re hungry?” she said, voice level, controlled.

“Fix your own plate.”

She paused at the edge of the broken mess, giving one last look at the sparkling chaos between them.

“And clean up the glass,” she added quietly.

Her eyes met his — unflinching.

“Before you step in it.”

Then she turned and walked up the stairs, away from him.

Without hurry.

Without apology.

Without looking back.

Just done.