Fiancé Refused My Mom the Guest Room, Gave Female colleague Master Bedroom

1: 1

The first day we moved in together, my boyfriend put the spare key away in a drawer.

"Home is a private space. No one comes in here but us."

I remembered that for four years.

When my mother came to the city for treatment, I only dared to book her a hotel nearby.

Before the wedding, I cut my business trip short, wanting to come home and surprise him.

I'd barely pushed the door open when I saw a pair of unfamiliar heels in the entryway.

His female subordinate, the one who was always saying she was afraid to live alone, was here in the apartment.

She hung her key on the second hook by the door like she'd done it a hundred times.

Paul James poked his head out of the kitchen.

"Her plumbing broke. She's staying a couple of days."

"I'm her boss. I can't just let her stay alone in a hotel."

I looked at that spare key, the paint already worn off it, and suddenly I laughed.

So this wasn't the first time she'd stayed here.

I took off my own key and put it in the drawer, right next to my engagement ring.

"From now on, it really is just the two of you here."

1

Paul looked at the key in the drawer, then back at me.

"You have to make a scene right now?"

Sara Hughes was standing in the bathroom doorway, wet hair falling over that pajama top of mine.

She took a step back, her voice soft.

"Mr. James, maybe I should just go stay somewhere else."

Paul's brow creased at once.

"Your divorce isn't finalized yet. Where would you go? Are hotels even safe?"

Only after he'd said it did he turn to me.

"Fiona Swanson, she's staying until her paperwork goes through. She and I have separate rooms. What exactly are you worried about?"

I opened the cabinet in the study and pulled out a few fabric binders and a box of samples.

"I'm not worried."

"Then why are you packing?"

"I need it for work."

Paul reached out and pressed his hand down on the box. He probably thought I was still waiting for him to smooth things over, because his voice went a little softer.

"The wedding's in three weeks. I can explain what happened today. Don't carry one bad mood into the wedding."

I looked at his hand pinning the box shut.

"Let go."

"Fiona."

"These are my things."

He froze for a few seconds, then took his hand back.

Sara had already gone to her room to change. Paul followed me to the study door and kept explaining her situation: her ex-husband wouldn't sign cleanly, she couldn't go back to her old place, and the new rental wanted first month plus three months' deposit.

I'd heard all of this more than once.

The first time, she'd worked too late, and Paul said it wasn't safe for a woman to go home alone.

The second time, she'd fought with her ex, and Paul said something had happened to a subordinate and, as her boss, he couldn't just ignore it.

After that the reasons kept multiplying, and yet it was only today that I found out the second hook by the door had always been hers.

"Where's the outfit for tomorrow's brand event?"

Paul asked suddenly.

I looked up.

"The closet."

"I saw it. It's not pressed. What about the presentation materials?"

"The final version's on the computer desktop."

"You're not doing it tonight?"

"No."

He acted like he hadn't understood.

For the past four years, whenever he had an event the next morning, I'd confirm the clothes, the drive time, and the materials in advance.

His stomach was bad, so whatever he couldn't touch, I'd tell the restaurant ahead of time too.

Even which compartment his usual medication was in, I was the one who kept track.

"I have to leave by seven tomorrow," he said.

"Then you still have time now."

Sara came out, changed, and quickly jumped in. "Mr. James, let me help you."

She pulled a dark gray suit out of the closet.

"Will this one work?"

Paul's face soured.

"Tomorrow's the product launch. Not that one."

"Then I'll order you breakfast. You usually drink iced americanos, right?"

"He can't have coffee on an empty stomach." I packed the last binder. "His stomach medicine is in the second slot on the left of the entryway cabinet."

Looking at this home that didn't need me, I sent my assistant the address and told her to bring the car in the morning.

Paul stared at my phone.

"You're really leaving?"

"I'm taking the work things first."

"And the rest?"

"I'll take those too."

He let out a short laugh, like I'd worn his patience down to nothing.

"Fine. When you've calmed down, we'll talk."

I didn't say anything back.

Downstairs, I called my mother.

She still had to stay in the city a few more days after her follow-up. Not wanting to be a bother, she'd already found a little inn next to the hospital.

"Don't book it," I said. "A room upstairs from my studio just opened up. You'll stay with me."

She hesitated a moment.

"Doesn't Paul hate having other people stay at your place?"

"That isn't our place."

The line went quiet.

"Did you two fight?"

I leaned against the car door and watched the lights come on upstairs, room by room.

"No. I just figured things out."

The next morning, my assistant came to load up the samples.

Paul had just come out of the bedroom, one whole side of his shirt creased, his tie mismatched.

"Why isn't the iron steaming?"

"The water tank isn't seated right."

"Come take a look for me."

I picked up the last box.

"The manual's in the drawer."

He chased me to the door.

"Fiona, is this really necessary?"

The elevator arrived.

I stepped aside to let my assistant in first.

"Paul, from now on your clothes, your medicine, your events, you handle all of it yourself."

Before the doors closed, I saw him standing there, that wrong tie still clenched in his hand.

That afternoon, I signed a six-month lease with the landlord for the room upstairs.

It wasn't big, with one window facing south.

My mother sat by that window in the sun. I put the new key in my bag, and for the first time I felt that leaving the apartment I'd lived in for four years wasn't as hard as I'd imagined.