Chapter Text
One day, an unpleasant little reporter cornered her at Westminster—young, smug, and clearly hoping for scandal. He was a vulture in a cheap suit, his eyes sharp and hungry for the carrion of a public downfall. Penny hadn’t flinched. Her composure was a fortress, built brick by unyielding brick over a lifetime of keeping secrets.
"Mrs. Sinclair, any comment on your husband’s... extracurriculars?" His voice was a barbed hook, seeking to snag a reaction, to tear at the seamless fabric of her public image.
She tilted her chin, a subtle, almost imperceptible movement that spoke of generations of inherited poise. A faint, perfectly polite smile bloomed on her lips, a delicate, unreadable flower. Her eyes, cool and blue as glacial ice, met his, giving nothing away.
"I assume you mean his chess club," she purred, the words smooth as polished river stones, each syllable carefully chosen. "He’s dreadfully passionate about it."
The lie was delivered with such effortless grace, such unshakeable conviction, that it hung in the air, shimmering like a mirage in the desert. It was a masterpiece of deflection, a silent, elegant rebuke that left no room for further inquiry.
Then, with the quiet dignity of a queen dismissing a troublesome subject, she’d turned and walked away. Her steps were even, unhurried, a metronome of control. She’d gone to the coatroom, a sanctuary of hushed whispers and forgotten desires, and called Sam. Her voice was calm, measured—the same tone she used when dealing with florists who got the centerpieces wrong, or when instructing the kennel staff on a particularly delicate breeding schedule. It was the voice of command, devoid of emotion, a blade of ice wrapped in velvet.
"This has reached the wrong kind of people," she said. "Fix it."
That was all. No dramatics. No questions.
He did what was expected. Ended the affair. Came home.
A week later, she left a set of car keys on the foyer table. It was a used Saab. He’d been eyeing it for months. She never mentioned it again.
She never asked about the woman, either. Only once did she bring it up—months later, after their daughter was asleep and the dishwasher humming quietly in the background. Penny had a glass of wine in hand, her eyes on the window.
"Was she clever?" she asked.
Sam looked up. "Penny…"
"I hope she was," she said, evenly. "I hope she made you feel interesting."
He hesitated, then said, "I was trying to get your attention."
Her mouth curled slightly. "You could have tried flowers."
"I did," he said. "For years, Penny. You were… somewhere else. Always somewhere else."
She said nothing. She couldn’t tell him that her ‘somewhere else’ was a woman who smelled like leather gloves and lavender water. A woman who only touched her when no one else could see.
Instead, she said, "I do love you, Sam."
He looked up. He looked so tired. "No, you don’t."
"I do," she said again, quiet but firm. "But I’m not built for drama. I show up. I keep things steady. I raise our daughter. I pretend to like the art exhibits you love and bike the shoreline with you even though I hate the wind in my hair. I refill your tea before you ask. That is love."
Sam let out a dry, quiet laugh. "Wait. You were pretending to like the Rothko?"
She smiled, just a little. "I liked that you liked it."
He didn’t press. Just looked at her for a moment like she was a painting he suddenly wasn’t sure he understood — familiar and unknowable all at once.
Penny kissed Sam’s cheek every morning. She raised their daughter with unwavering tenderness. She organized galas, chaired committees, played hostess with laughter that never quite reached her eyes.
To the outside world, she was enviable.
Inside, she was slowly disappearing.
Her life with Sam had the rhythm of a long-married couple. It was built on shared schedules, quiet mornings, evening walks, mugs of milky tea. A kind of comfort had grown between them, predictable and pleasant. They read in silence, watched films with interlocked ankles on the sofa, and wordlessly passed each other newspaper sections like clockwork.
And Penny didn’t hate it. In a way, she was grateful for the calm.
But she wasn’t alive in it.
Where Vivian made her feel unmoored — like her soul was in freefall, like she couldn’t catch her breath without laughing or gasping or weeping — Sam gave her gravity. He gave her stillness. And in some darker way, that stillness was a kind of burial.
Yet Penny did love him, in her way. He was the father of her child. He had once, in their twenties, biked across town just to leave her daffodils on her windshield after she'd broken her arm falling from a horse. He had spent a decade swallowing his dislike of her parents, her dogs, her world, just to stay by her side. He didn’t understand her, not really. But he tried. Sometimes that counted.
He still wore those tweed jackets. Still drank milky tea. Still annotated war documentaries like they were holy texts. He still took the dogs out each morning and let their daughter ride on his shoulders at the farmer’s market. He still looked at Penny like he couldn’t believe she picked him.
She just no longer remembered why she had.