The Wife Who Stole My Dreams

oses held loosely in my hand. I had composed my face into a mask of tir

e looked up as

smile bright and flawless. It was a performance

errible," I lied, placing the roses

lling one out and sniffing it with exagg

My voice was stead

rn suit. "Still trying, Hayes? Ninety-nine times and you still have mon

y part. "It' s the hundredth

ip of her wine. "Or is it just th

the table and placed her hand over mine. Her skin was warm, her touch familiar. It used to be my com

oice dropping into that intimate tone she reserved for

knuckles. I could feel the expensive ring she wore, the one I' d bought her with the last of my saving

said, pulling my hand away under t

ng so hard," she said, her face a perfect port

thought. Exhausted

I said. "Maybe it' s the st

ting us tonight." She gestured for the waiter, ordering a bottle of the most expensive cham

here but a reflection of the man she wanted me to be: hopeful, clueless, and utterly devoted. I til

recounted a funny story about our first date, a story she' d told a dozen times. I laughed on cue.

ere. I needed to be al

n on the table. "I just had an idea.

flicker of annoyance before the supportive mask snapped ba

ht. Can' t it wait

he knew well. My sudden bursts of inspiration. My retreat to the workshop to scribble on wh

said, my voice low and urge

in her eyes. Another idea for her to steal. Another jewel to

r smile returning, genuine this time. "Okay, honey. You g

down to kiss her cheek, the scent of her perfume making my stomach churn. Her

lied, her voice a perfec

. I didn't head for my workshop. The workshop, our home, th

eartbreak was still there, a raw, open wound. But the confusion was gone. For five

th of deconstruction. I was going to dismantle her life, and Mark' s, pie

ht with a grim sense of irony

ld be