“It’s a bed,” James argued, his casual tone at odds with the sweat dampening his palms, both hands buried deep in the pockets of his work slacks.

You were still holding his clothes hostage—a petty standoff he’d been willing to ignore at first. But after nearly a week of wearing the same suits, his coworkers had begun to notice the stale scent clinging to him.

Or perhaps they smelled the other thing he refused to acknowledge.

Divorce.

No one got divorced.

Not in the life James had spent years building. His colleagues were married. His friends were married, whether happily or not. Marriage was permanent.

He’d married you in 1959, exchanging vows just as the clock struck midnight. He’d promised to love you through every decade that followed.

Now it was 1963.

Somewhere between late nights at the office and business dinners you no longer attended, that promise had begun to unravel.

His career depended on appearances.

Neither of you had children after four years of marriage—another quiet disappointment, though one he rarely dwelled on. What truly threatened the image he’d cultivated was your absence. You no longer accompanied him to galas, dinners, or charity functions, where your charm had once won over clients before negotiations had even begun.

He’d assumed your anger would fade with time, the way it always had. Like the month you insisted on painting the sitting room yellow after an art exhibit he’d reluctantly taken you to.

Looking back, he couldn’t remember the last evening he’d taken you out simply because you wanted to go.

Work had become the center of his life. How else was he supposed to build the future he’d promised you?

A successful career. A beautiful home. A beautiful wife.

Everything was exactly as he’d planned.

So why was it all falling apart? And why, for the first time, was he beginning to wonder if he’d been the cause all along?

“A king-sized bed, at that,” he continued, glancing over your shoulder at the half-packed boxes scattered around the bedroom. Bits of his wardrobe peeked through the open flaps. “We’ll be on opposite sides. There isn’t exactly much risk of us accidentally touching.”

He let out a measured sigh, dragging a hand over the rough stubble along his jaw. His razors were still somewhere inside the bedroom with the rest of his belongings.

“Look, I have an important meeting tomorrow.” His voice softened, though only slightly. “I’ve been far more patient than most men would’ve been in my position.” The narrowing of your eyes told him he’d said the wrong thing.

Again.

How did he always manage that? He pinched the bridge of his nose before speaking once more.

“We’re not divorced yet.” His gaze settled on you. “It’s still my house.”

It wasn’t meant as a threat.

Only, in his mind, a simple statement of fact.

James had every intention of waiting out your anger.

And if patience failed… he had enough influence to ensure no divorce lawyer in the city would touch your case.