Page 51 of The Call She Made That He Never Answered
Problem was, work required focus. My focus? It had disappeared with Ella.
I could feel a black hole expanding inside me. First my concentration scattered. Then people started looking at me differently—with an emotion I'd never seen before. It took me several times to recognize it: pity.
It came to a head at noon when I passed the break room. I'd always known some employees gossiped during lunch. Never thought I'd be the topic.
"Did you hear? Mr. Rockefeller..."
My heart jolted. I stopped.
"Really? Mr. Rockefeller's getting divorced?" A young woman's voice, barely a whisper but crackling with gossip-hungry excitement.
"I heard it's true. Married two years, not even a kid..."
My fingers clenched on the doorframe. Perfect. My private life had become company entertainment.
"But I really don't understand," another voice chimed in, confused and regretful. "How could he let her go? I mean, Mrs. Rockefeller is literally a legend. Has anyone actually seen her?"
"Never! She didn't even show up to that top-tier charity gala last year. Avoids all the socializing," the first voice dropped lower, full of admiration. "But that's real class, isn't it? She doesn't need to show off in jewelry and flashbulbs. People who've met her say she's beautiful, so gentle, doesn't need any of that social scene validation."
"Yes! I saw that one blurry profile shot from their wedding in the paper," the young voice rushed to agree. "Even just a shadow, you could feel how wonderful she was. I thought, Mr. Rockefeller has great taste."
My breath caught. Yes. I'd had this perfect wife. And I'd lost her.
"Plus, she never came to the office bossing people around, never had any scandals," someone continued. "Not like those trophy wives constantly buying press coverage. Mrs. Rockefeller is every man's dream—quiet, reserved, protecting that home. I always figured she must be incredibly strong inside, really refined."
I leaned against the cold wall, a bizarrely complex emotion rising in my chest.
Pain mixed with... pride?
Yes. Pride.
Even now, with my marriage dragged into public gossip, hearing these people who'd never met Ella praise her sent an inexplicable thrill through me.
"So the problem's obviously on Mr. Rockefeller's end," the third voice concluded with irritating certainty. "I mean, you marry a woman this good and can't make it two years? That only means one thing."
"He screwed up," the young voice finished. "Royally screwed up."
A brief silence fell over the break room, followed by synchronized sighs.
"Men," someone summarized. "Sometimes they really don't know what they've got."
I stood behind the door, every muscle locked tight. I wanted to tell them they were wrong. The absurd part? I couldn't.
Because I really hadn't treasured Ella.
Ella was a flawless wife. She managed everything perfectly, never needed my help. I'd taken her contributions for granted until she'd been neglected one time too many and left.
I'd forgotten the most basic truth about relationships. No one's devotion is guaranteed. Ella gave out of love, out of duty as a wife. And I'd never once fulfilled my duty as a husband, never offered even one genuine thank you.
"Mr. Rockefeller?"
A clear voice suddenly rang out behind me.
The break room went silent.
I turned. A young HR assistant stood there, pure panic on her face.
The door flew open. Those three women went white as sheets. They looked at me, eyes full of terrified confusion, then squeezed past with their heads down, not daring to linger one second.
