A Little Like Hate

Emery

I sink into the lush embrace of my king-sized bed, a fortress of solitude in my sprawling penthouse, a place that’s become as cold and quiet as my love life.

Ha, love. They say it’s a beautiful thing—an all-consuming, soul-gratifying, earth-shaking kind of thing. Until it’s not.

The city below buzzes with sounds, an array of honking taxis, sirens, and chattering pedestrians. But up here, it’s just me. Me and the distant memory of a time when my husband wasn’t just another entry on my schedule, squeezed in between board meetings and charity galas.

But as I curl up alone, cocooning myself in a swath of overpriced Egyptian cotton sheets, I wonder if that life-changing kind of love even exists. Love should be an earthquake of emotions, right? It should rattle your bones and leave you breathless, clinging to the feeling that the world’s ending and it may be the last shred of humanity you ever experience.

Instead, I’m lying here, clutching at the fraying threads of a marriage that’s slipping through my fingers like sand. A marriage that’s become nothing more than a few shared assets and empty promises whispered in the dark.

Sliding up the headboard, I unravel the sheets and nestle against the white-washed boards, reaching for my wine glass on the nightstand. I look to the bottom of the glass before bringing the rim to my lips, the pale yellow liquid swirling like the storm of frustration brewing inside me. The first sip burns, a fiery reminder that self-love might be the only love I’ve got left. The only love that doesn’t disappoint.

“Love,” I scoff aloud, watching the city lights flicker and dance like mocking laughter as I fling the sheets off and get up, slipping my feet back into my trusty sneakers sitting bedside. What a crock of shit.

The golden glow of the setting sun has long vanished, leaving behind a canopy of muted stars and a full moon that seems indifferent to my seething anger. Ass parked in the kitchen on an island stool, my fingers tap an impatient rhythm on the marble countertop, echoing through the vast, empty spaces of the penthouse.

The silence is deafening. It's the kind that gnaws at you, amplifying every lonely thought you've ever had until millions are screaming in your head.

The sharp trill of my phone slices through the quiet apartment, a text message lighting up the screen. My heart does a pathetic little leap before plummeting into the abyss as I read the words. Yet another cancellation, another deflected plan, and another night alone.

“You’re kidding?” I stare at my phone in disbelief, the words blurring slightly as frustration clouds my vision. A second later, my ringtone blares. “This is getting ridiculous, Carter,” is the only greeting I can afford my husband when I pick up.

My voice, usually so sure and commanding in the boardroom of my multimillion-dollar empire, wavers beneath the weight of my resignation. Each syllable drips with the bitterness of countless letdowns. Of playing second fiddle to Wall Street and Carter's relentless pursuit of wealth that leaves no room for us.

I picture him there, amidst the cacophony of ringing phones and frantic brokers, his dark eyes alight with the thrill of the chase. How effortlessly he can weave a web of charm around anyone. Anyone except me, it seems. The calculating glint in those piercing caramel eyes, once so attractive, now only serves as a stark reminder of the emotional chasm between us. One I’m becoming all too comfortable with.

“Em, come on—” he starts, but I’m already over it. Over him. Over this conversation we’ve had more times than I can count. “It’s a work thing. The guys…”

Annoyance drives me to fidget, so I get up to pace the floors, frowning at the sprawling city below, its pulsing hum rising up to taunt me. Here I am, high above it all in a gilded cage—a cage I helped build with every compromise, every unchallenged lie, every silent scream I swallowed down like the wine in my glass.

“Seriously? Don’t ‘Em, come on me’ Carter.” My voice rises, a perfect crescendo of exasperation as I pace the length of our wall of windows in the kitchen, the cool hardwood barely registering beneath the soles of my worn Converse. “You know what? Fine. I guess I’ll just have dinner alone. Again.”

The weight of my disillusionment grounds me more firmly than gravity ever could. The best advice I ever received was to pick your battles in marriage. And as I stand here, silence wrapping around me like a shawl, I decide this isn’t one I care to engage in. Not tonight. Not ever again.

“I’ll make it up to you, babe. Promise.” Carter’s voice trickles through the speaker, sweet as poisoned honey, but I’m not swallowing it—not this time.

“Promises, promises,” I mutter, barely above a whisper. The sound of my own cynicism is louder than his reassurances, resounding off the high ceilings and coming back to slap me in the face.

My eyes roll way back in my head, performing a ballet variation toward the back of my skull. It’s a well-rehearsed dance, one I’ve perfected over countless similar conversations. His version of ‘making it up to me’ is about as thrilling as watching paint dry. Beige paint, at that. Dull, missionary sex that’s as predictable as it is uninspiring, followed by a peck on the lips so chaste it could have been delivered by a grandmother.

“Oh, don’t give me that snippy guilt-trip shit, Emery. It’s one night. Get over it. Bitchy isn’t a good look on you.” On the other end of the line, I can sense Carter’s patience hanging by mere threads, thinner than the ones holding together his tailored suits.

I halt my pacing mid-stride, the word ‘bitchy’ igniting my blood, but not quite enough to take the bait. I’m too tired for full-fledged anger. Too tired of him and his bullshit. I grip the phone tighter, knuckles whitening, the sleek device threatening to become a casualty of my grip.

“Bitchy?” I let the word hang in the air, a question and an accusation all at once. “That’s what you’re going with?”

An exasperated sigh is Carter’s response, and I know he’s steeling himself to backtrack. Not because he feels like an ass, no. Because he just wants me to sit down, shut up, and act like the good little wife he wishes I were.

“Look, I shouldn’t have—”

“Save it, Carter,” I snap, the words coming out sharp and clipped. A stark contrast to the chaotic tumble of emotions churning inside me.

Ah, sweet marital bliss. Not.

I hit the end call button before he can fill the silence with excuses I’ve heard more times than there are stars in the sky. The screen goes black, reflecting a woman who’s had all the romance sucked out of her life. I’m left wondering if there’s ever going to be more to my nights than this—a half-empty bed and the lingering feeling of being cheated out of something vital.

A bitter laugh escapes me, the hollow sound echoing harshly through the barren air.

“Bliss, my ass,” I mutter to myself, stalking away from the cold contempt of the city lights gleaming through the kitchen windows. I need warmth, I need... wine. Yes, more wine will do.

Trudging to the built-in wine cooler, I yank it open and grab an unopened bottle of Sauvignon Blanc—no, make that the expensive Cabernet; tonight suddenly feels like a red kind of night. It’s got legs, as they say, whatever the hell that means. All I know is if it’s got legs, maybe it can run me the hell away from my disaster of a marriage faster than my own two feet can.

I reach for the wine opener, twisting it into the cork with more force than necessary. The satisfying pop echoes through the emptiness of my home, a symphony for one. My oversized glass fills, the ruby liquid catching the light from the chandelier overhead, casting dancing shadows against the walls.

The drink sloshes gently as I carry it through the wide-open living area, snagging a bowl of grapes from the table as the scent of its rich bouquet already promises to be a better companion than the man who wears my ring yet shares none of my nights.

With every step toward my patio door, I shed a layer of my frustration, the casual comfort of my home outfitting me in invisible armour forged of apathy and self-preservation.

Self-love is important too, I remind myself, taking a generous gulp as I kick off my sneakers. My reflection nods back at me from the glass door, a woman framed by wavy blonde hair and dressed in defiance—Converse instead of stilettos, solitude instead of false companionship.

Tonight, the only arms I’ll fall into are the cushions of my couch, the only whispers coming from the pages of a book waiting to be opened. Minute by minute, Carter’s absence shrinks to a mere inconvenience, a footnote in my evening plans.

So, I decide to leave thoughts of him at the door. Let him drown in his sea of stocks, booze, and empty promises. I don't need him. I never really have. Besides, tonight I’ve got a date with myself and the kind of peace that only comes when you stop waiting for someone else to give it to you.

“Here’s to you, Mr. Cabernet,” I toast the empty room, “for being the most reliable man in my life.”

I swig another mouthful, the rich liquid trailing fire down my throat. It’s supposed to be savoured, sipped, and appreciated. But right now, I’d rather drown in it than taste the notes of oak or blackberry or whatever pretentious flavours are supposed to dance on my tongue.

I close my eyes and let the burn work down my throat, enjoying that wine doesn’t talk back. It doesn’t disappoint or spend nights working late or treat me like gum on the bottom of a fancy Louboutin shoe. No, the wine is always there, faithful in its glass bottle, waiting to offer its bitter comfort. And I’m realizing now how unhealthy that sounds, but screw it.

There's nothing wrong with being a damn strong woman—one who built her empire from the ground up by orchestrating grand events with a flick of the wrist—standing in her kitchen toasting to alcohol because her husband can't or won't be present.

This wine on this night is my idea of self-care, and I'm going to damn well enjoy it.

The heat from the hot tub licks at my skin, a sizzling welcome as I ease my feet into its depths. With every inch of me that sinks beneath the surface, the day’s frustrations uncoil, muscle by muscle. The jets attack the knots in my back relentlessly, and I can’t help but let out a low moan.

Lavender and vanilla scents drift up from the diffuser on the cocktail table, their sweet dance in the breeze kissing my senses. I let my head tip back against the edge of the tub, my hair floating around me like a halo of golden threads. Stars peek through the swaying branches above, distant and cold, yet somehow comforting in their indifference. They don’t care about board meetings or shareholder reports. They don’t give a damn about a husband who’s married to his job more than his wife.

“Fuck Wall Street,” I shout to the sky, raising my glass as if those celestial bodies might clink their light against it in solidarity. “And cheers to independence. Here’s to being my own goddamn hero.”

With a deep sigh, I sink further into the water, letting it lap at my chin as I reach for the paperback sitting on the edge of the hot tub, taunting me with its dog-eared page. Cracking it open, I’m immediately thrust into a world where desire isn’t just an old friend you used to know.

“Damn,” I mutter under my breath, the protagonist’s journey to her very first climax making my heart race in anticipation.

The words dance before me, each sentence painting a scene so vivid I can almost feel it myself. I pop a grape into my mouth, its juicy sweetness bursting across my tongue a stark contrast to the dry spell happening between my legs as of late.

“Jealous of a fictional character, Emery. Get a grip,” I chastise myself, even though I can’t help but be envious of her imminent release. Each paragraph takes her closer, and I’m dying to be right there with her, on the precipice of something earth-shattering.

The reality is much less enticing. Carter’s touch used to ignite fires within me. Now all I’ve got are these jets, and they’re doing a piss-poor job of filling those shoes. Months have gone by without that deep, soul-connecting kind of sex I crave. Hell, who am I kidding? It’s been years since we’ve truly connected.

Might as well slap a 're-virginized' sticker on my forehead at this point. And while the thought should probably horrify me, I find myself scoffing instead. If good fucks were currency, I’d be broke as hell, living vicariously through the escapades of paper-thin lovers because my own husband is about as present in our bed as he is in this hot tub.

“Pathetic,” I whisper to no one, my words swallowed by the night. “Well, here’s to you, anonymous erotica girl,” I say quietly, wondering how many more inanimate things I can raise my glass to tonight as I finish reading the steamy passage that’s given me more excitement than Carter has in ages. “At least one of us is getting off tonight.”

At the end of the chapter and one hell of a fictional orgasm, I close and place the book on the hot tub's ledge, settling in to savour my last drops of wine. The night air is breezy, and way up here, the wind drowns out the city sounds, amplifying my solitude. I let it wrap around me like the cashmere throw waiting for me at the foot of my bed.

I’m starting to think I've got this ritual down to an art: solo nights filled with the luxuries of silence and space, punctuated by the turn of a page or the clink of ice settling at the bottom of a glass.

I drain the last of my wine and stand, water cascading down my naked skin as I lean over to set the crystal flute down on the stone patio table below. Time for the grand finale of my self-date night—embracing the vast expanse of my bed, where the duvet offers more warmth than any man ever could.

Wrapping a towel around myself, I pad barefoot across the chilled tiles and make my way back inside the house, the promise of a solitary slumber pulling me in like a siren’s call.

Carter’s side of the bed is untouched, as pristine as if he were just another item on the long list of things I own but seldom use. I chuckle darkly at the thought, shedding the remnants of the day along with my damp towel. It’s just me, myself, and I—and frankly, the company couldn’t be better.

With a content huff, I slip under the blankets, letting the cloud of downy softness beneath my back mould to my every curve. I stretch my limbs like a cat, reaching for the crisply cool corners of my pillow. No wrestling matches for the covers tonight. No icy feet nudging against mine or the rumble of snores sawing through the silence.

“Freedom,” I murmur to the room, starfishing my body under the expanse of fabric. It envelops me, a cocoon spun from the threads of independence and self-reliance.

My eyelids grow heavy, and as I drift off to sleep, I can’t help but wonder if this is what victory looks like—a bed all to myself and a heart guarded by walls thicker than the fortress of my million-dollar empire.

It’s a hollow win, but it’s mine, and right now, that’s more than enough.