The grease from the Pad Kee Mao was already seeping through the bottom of the brown paper bag, warming Arthur's palm. He'd driven forty minutes in the driving rain to get it from that little Thai place Clara loved three towns over.
He didn't mind the drive. He knew she was pushing hard for the VP spot this quarter and needed the fuel.
The 34th floor of the Harrison-Vane building was a ghost town at 10:30 PM. The only sound was the low, electric hum of the fluorescent overheads and the squeak of Arthur's damp sneakers against the polished linoleum.
He turned the corner toward Clara's office, already rehearsing his entrance. Just dropping off some rations, boss. He'd leave it on her desk, kiss the top of her head, and let her get back to the grind. That was the routine. That was the partnership.
But as he reached for the brushed steel handle of her door, he froze.
The door was locked. And there was a sound coming from inside.
It wasn't the rapid clatter of a keyboard. It was a rhythmic, heavy thudding against the mahogany desk. The same desk Arthur had spent three agonizing weekends assembling for her home office before she insisted on dragging it to headquarters to "look the part."
Then came the laugh. It was a breathless, throaty sound that made the takeout bag suddenly feel like it weighed a hundred pounds.
"Wait, wait," a man's voice panted. Deep, unfamiliar, and dripping with arrogance. "What if your husband texts?"
"Arthur?" Clara's voice. The same voice that had said 'I do' five years ago. Now, it was laced with a mocking, dismissive edge that made Arthur's blood run instantly cold. "Are you kidding? He's probably asleep on the couch watching re-runs. Or fixing somebody's router."
"Doesn't he get suspicious?" The thudding picked up pace.
Clara gasped, a sound of pure, uninhibited pleasure that Arthur hadn't heard from her in years. "Arthur doesn't have the spine to be suspicious. He's... ah... he's just safe. He's comfortable. He's a glorified roommate who pays half the rent and does the dishes so I can focus on my career."
Arthur stood paralyzed in the hallway. The scent of garlic, basil, and chili oil wafted up from the bag, turning his stomach.
Five years. Five years of working overtime in a windowless server room while his peers moved on to better things. Five years of eating cold dinners alone so she could network. Five years of being the concrete foundation she built her entire life on.
A glorified roommate.
Most men would have kicked the door in. They would have yelled, thrown punches, made a scene. For a split second, Arthur's knuckles turned white as his grip tightened on the door handle. He imagined the look of sheer, humiliating terror on her face if he barged in right now.
But he didn't turn the handle.
The anger didn't explode outward. Instead, it imploded. It collapsed inward, hardening into something infinitely colder, darker, and much more dangerous.
She was right about one thing: he was comfortable. He had been comfortably asleep at the wheel of his own life.
Slowly, deliberately, Arthur lowered the brown paper bag to the floor. He set it perfectly in the center of her doorway, taking care not to let the paper rustle. He didn't write a note. He didn't slam his fists against the frosted glass.
He just let go of the plastic handles, turned his back, and walked away.
His damp sneakers didn't squeak on the way out. He moved like a ghost. Clara thought he was too passive, too weak, and too unaccomplished to ever do anything about a betrayal. She thought her little corporate empire was completely secure.
By the time the elevator doors dinged open on the lobby floor, the loving, supportive husband was dead. In his place was an IT specialist who knew every password, every backdoor, every bank account, and every dirty little secret of Clara's life.
She wanted a ruthless corporate player? She was about to get one.