The Rockstar Husband She Discarded

Savannah, who was eight years my senior, didn't come home that night. That was already unusual.
Then my friends message popped upa photo of a mature man and my wife.
The hand draped across her waist was a white-hot brand on my retina.
I sat with my guitar cradled in my lap all night.
It wasn't until dawn that Savannah finally stumbled through the door, smelling of stale liquor, yet carrying herself with unnerving composure.
Business dinner, I forgot to tell you. Why are you still up?
I pulled up the photo and laid the phone on the coffee table between us.
Would it be impolite to call him sir?
1
That hand in the photo. It was like a searing iron, pressed hard onto my vision.
It wasn't a casual touch; it was a possessive, almost territorial clasp.
Clasped around my wifes waist.
The sender was my buddy, and the message was just a dry, bare statement:
Bro, Savannah was at The Bluebird last night.
I knew the bar. Id played a residency there a few years back.
My gutthat raw, male instinctscreamed that this wasnt just a business dinner.
I had a last-minute dinner with a major client. Couldnt bow out, drank too much, so I just got a hotel room near the office and crashed. I forgot to text you.
She was unsteady on her feet. She walked straight to the kitchen island, grabbed a glass, and downed a full one of cold water. Setting the cup down, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and finally turned to face me.
She tilted her head slightly, as if looking at a child who was making a fuss over nothing.
The suns up, Rhys. Why are you sulking here? Go get some sleep.
Forgot to text me?
My gaze moved to her face, a mask of calm that bordered on cold indifference.
The acoustic guitar in my lap felt like a slab of frozen concrete.
I flipped the phone screen, presenting the photo on the coffee table.
Oh, a business dinner.
My voice was a rough, dry rasp, like sandpaper rubbing against wood.
Then this gentleman in the photo this sir,
The word was squeezed through my clenched teeth, sharp with mockery,
If I called him sir, would it be disrespectful?
She glanced at the image and immediately launched into a counter-attack, her voice ringing with indignation.
Did you hire someone to track me?
I shook my head, finding her chosen point of focus darkly amusing.
Her first instinct wasn't to explain, but to deflect and accuse.
My friend happened to be at The Bluebird last night, thats all.
And this is what you call a business dinner? Did you get a room with him?
Savannah bristled, her voice climbing to a sharp, aggressive pitch.
Happened to be there? The photo is perfectly clear! How convenient!
Dr. Hawthorne is our most crucial client. I was drunk last night, he just helped steady me. What is wrong with that?
Do you even understand what client relations are? Do you understand what it takes to maintain them?
Her words shot out like a machine gun, attempting to build a defensive wall with cold, hard concepts: "work," "projects," "importance"all just to hide the naked intimacy of that hand in the picture.
Maintain client relations?
I echoed her phrase, my eyes boring into her face, searching desperately for a ghost of the woman I used to know beneath the perfectly applied makeup.
I found nothing.
Do you need to maintain relations until his arm is wrapped around your waist like youre a piece of luggage? Maintain it until you stay out all night and cant even be bothered to send your husband a single, tired text?
You!
Savannahs face went white, choked by my bluntness. Her chest heaved violently.
She drew a deep breath, forcing down the rage, and looked at me with a mixture of exhaustion, annoyance, and utter disappointment. She looked at me as though I were a burdenan eternal child who only knew how to whine.
Rhys, enough!
Her voice suddenly dropped, carrying the icy chill of absolute refusal to engage.
Look at you! Huddled over that damn guitar, sitting here like a ghost all night just to catch me in some imagined lie? Aside from baseless suspicion and childish accusations, what exactly can you do?
She raised a hand and rubbed her temples hard, an action heavy with fatigue.
A deathly silence fell over the living room.
All I could hear was her sharp, ragged breathing, and the slow, heavy, almost-stopping beat of my own heart against my ribs.
So this is it.
I stared at her.
The metallic, coppery taste of rust finally broke through in my throat.
I bent over sharply, coughinga wrenching, tearing sound, as if I were trying to cough up my own insides.
She watched me double over, but there wasn't a flicker of emotion on her facejust an indifferent coldness, perhaps even a hint of revulsion. She smoothed down her messy curls and turned toward the bedroom.
Im tired. I need to rest. You think about what youve done.
The bedroom door clicked shut behind her, a faint sound that sealed off two separate worlds.
I was left alone in the living room.
In the year we had been married, wed had countless arguments, large and small.
Every one of them ended with her walking away and me sinking into silence.
I remembered what my friend had told me when we first started dating.
The age gap is too big. It won't last.
But I couldn't resist the way she looked at me.
Her eyes were bright, like she was looking at some rare, precious treasure.
I went against everyones advice to be with her.
When we first got together, we had endless things to talk about.
I promised her Id only sing for her, and I promptly quit my successful band.
I retreated into the background.
The living room was terrifyingly silent, broken only by the tireless sweep of the second hand on the wall clock.
The door Savannah had closed was a boundary, a chasm that separated us completely.
Think about what youve done. The phrase looped in my mind like a curse.
Was I truly wrong?
The thought, cold as a viper, slipped into my chaotic mind.
Maybe maybe it was just a business dinner?
Maybe Dr. Hawthorne had just politely helped her up?
Maybe I was too sensitive, too immature, jumping straight to the worst possible conclusion?
A rush of intense guilt, mixed with a desperate urge to save the relationship, instantly drowned out my anger and heartbreak.
I couldnt let go this easily. At the very least, I couldn't let my "immaturity" and "suspicion" destroy this.
I needed to do something.
To prove I still cared about her, that I cared about our home.
My eyes fell instinctively on the guitar in my lap.
Years ago, this guitar, my voice, my songsthey were what made her walk toward me, against all odds.
I sat with the guitar, nervous and awkward as a kid at his first open mic, staring intently at the bedroom door.
I was waiting for her to come out. I was going to sing her Night Flight, just like I did when we were first falling in love.
Time crawled by.
The light in the living room shifted from the pale gold of dawn to the harsh white of midday, then slowly, began to tint with the orange glow of dusk.
There was no movement from the bedroom.
She needs rest. Shes so tired
I told myself this, fighting down the rising tide of anxiety and unease.
It wasn't until late afternoon that I finally heard a stir.
The door opened.
Savannah stepped out.
She had changed into a new outfita sharp, tailored business suit of high quality. Her face was perfectly made up, her hair impeccably styled.
There was no sign of a hangover or our morning argument. She looked refreshed, even radiant.
You woke up?
I managed to croak out, my voice raw from a sleepless night and full of cautious hope.
Are you hungry? I can I can make you something?
I moved to set the guitar down and stand up.
Dont bother. She cut me off coolly, her voice devoid of warmth.
Her gaze swept over the coffee table, lingering on my guitar, and her frown deepened.
Put that thing away. Its in the way.
I watched her back, the words, Let me sing you a song, stuck in my throat, impossible to voice.
She turned around, her arms crossed, and assessed me with a chilling, critical stare:
Rhys, this morning I told you to think about what youve done. Have you figured it out?
I struggled to form the words, grasping at a straw of reconciliation.
I I have. Maybe maybe I was too impulsive. I shouldnt have questioned you like that
She immediately interrupted, her voice sharp with impatience.
Its not about the questions! Thats not the point! The point is youre completely stagnant! Rhys, I dont need a man who only knows how to clutch a guitar, wallow in past fantasies, and be pathologically suspicious!
I looked down at the old companion shed dismissed as that damn guitar.
It had been my life, the symbol of everything Id given up for her, and now, in her eyes, it was the main evidence against me.
I
Put it away?
Go find a nine-to-five job, something "legitimate" and non-musical?
Would I even be Rhys anymore?
My hesitation, my internal struggle, was, to her, nothing more than cowardice and an utter lack of salvation.
Hmph. She let out a short, cold scoff, full of complete despair and a perverse sense of relief. So your big think resulted in you clinging to your rock and roll dreams. Fine.
She didnt look at me again. She turned and walked into the bedroom, starting to pack.
Her movements were sharp, decisive, and entirely without remorse, as if she were simply boxing up a piece of luggage she no longer needed.
Where where are you going?
My voice was edged with panic.
Business trip. She didnt turn around, her voice cold as ice. Project requires me to be out of town for a few days. We both need to cool off.
A business trip? With who?
The name was almost out before I could stop it.
Her packing abruptly ceased.
Rhys! Stop it! Stop with your disgusting paranoia! My work and my whereabouts are none of your concern! You have no right, and frankly, no capacity, to interfere!
She zipped the suitcase shut with a harsh, grating sound, announcing an end.
She dragged the suitcase toward the front door.
Savannah!
I jumped up, trying to block her, desperate to say somethingeven a pitiful plea.
But she only paused, turning her head just enough to shoot me a cold, sidelong glance.
Her eyes held no love, no hatredjust sheer fatigue and the chilling certainty of someone who has seen through a long-held deception.
Rhys, her voice was frighteningly calm, yet every word was a stab to the heart, What do we have left, besides that marriage license? Your guitar? Your dreams? Or that heart of yours that refuses to grow up?
She paused, her gaze sweeping over my frozen figure and the solitary guitar beside me, her lips curling into a deeply cynical smirk.
Dont bother me again until you learn how to act like a man. And dont send me any more of those idiotic messages.
With that, she wrenched open the front door, dragged the suitcase out, and walked away without looking back.
Ding-dong.
A notification chime interrupted my paralysis.
Her phone, sitting forgotten on the entryway cabinet, lit up.
She must have been in too much of a rush.
I picked it up and input the passcode.
It was still our anniversary.
The pinned chat was with a contact simply labeled: ?
It wasnt me.
A few more messages popped up:
[Morning, Wild one. Hows the red wine after effects from last night?]
[You left your scarf in my car. Ill bring it to you next time. Make sure you get some rest.]
Attached to the text was a photo.
The background was a hotel room, the messy sheets revealing exactly what had happened.
A purple silk scarf lay on the rumpled bedding.
It was Savannahs.
Wild one
The two words were like barbed hooks digging into my eyes.
All my agony, my questions, her self-righteous business dinner monologueall of it was shredded to pieces by this text and this photo.
Leaving only the ugly, naked truth.
So this was what she meant by "so tired."
This was where she needed to "get some rest."
And this was how the mature, responsible Dr. Hawthorne addressed her in private.
I clenched her phone so tightly my knuckles turned white and bruised, convinced I was going to shatter the device.
I bent over, dry coughing again, violently.
Just then, the door was yanked open.
Savannah had come back for the phone shed forgotten.
She frowned, her eyes instantly locking onto the phone tightly gripped in my hand. Her pupils constricted.
Rhys! What are you doing with my phone?!
Her voice was instantly sharp, laced with the panic of invasion, the last vestiges of sleep gone.
She rushed forward and snatched the phone away from me.
You read my phone?! You actually spied on my phone?!
Her voice was so shrill it seemed to tear the air.
Do you have no respect?! No boundaries?! You are you are impossible!
She gasped, her chest rising and falling furiously.
Yes! I am with Victor! So what?!
She completely tore off her last layer of composure, shouting with desperate abandon.
Hes more mature than you! More stable! He understands what responsibility is! Being with him, I realize how stupid I was! Waiting around for you, you piece of dead weight that will never climb off the floor!
Look at you!
She lifted her hand, her forefinger stabbing violently against my chest, her touch ice cold.
What else do you do besides sit here like a whiny victim clutching that dusty guitar, or act like a thief spying on my privacy?! What have you ever given me? Security? A future? Or just your ridiculous, worthless rock and roll dreams?!
I couldnt muster the strength for a single word of rebuttal.
My throat was choked with cold despair and utter emotional death.
My silence seemed to only further enrage her.
SLAM!
The front door was slammed shut again with all her force.
The thought of the flirtatious messages, the explicit photoit sent a wave of nausea through me.
I bolted to the bathroom, leaning over the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl, dry heaving violently.
Nothing came up but the burning bile and stomach acid, bringing wave after wave of tearing spasms to my throat.
This was Rhys?
The rock singer who used to burn up the stage and roar with life?
I splashed cold water on my face. The icy sting brought a momentary, painful clarity.
Every inch of this home was poisoned by betrayal.
To stay one second longer was torture.
I had to leave.
Now.
I didn't have a destination, I just needed to escape this suffocating space.
I walked to the corner and picked up the heavy gig bag.
I pulled open the door Savannah had just slammed.
I walked the silent, predawn streets, aimless, like a wandering ghost.
Before I knew it, my feet stopped beneath a familiar, flickering neon sign: The Bluebird.
This was it.
The place the photo came from, the origin of the nightmare.
Another message popped up from my friend:
[Bro, still in the VIP booth at The Bluebird. Your wife shes here too.]
A booth number followed.
My heart felt like it was seized by an invisible hand and squeezed until it stopped beating.
The booth number was burned into my vision.
As if possessed, I pushed open The Bluebirds heavy, soundproof door.
The deafening music and psychedelic lights instantly swallowed me whole.
The air was thick with the mixed scent of alcohol, perfume, smoke, and raw desire.
I was an intruder, awkwardly carrying my gig bag, moving through the gyrating crowd toward that booth number.
Fear, rage, despair, and a sliver of absurd hope.
Hope that all of this was some terrible mistake.
I finally stopped in front of the door.
The heavy panel couldn't completely block the noise inside.
I could vaguely hear a womans soft laughter, a mans low murmur, and Savannahs distinctive, slightly lazy, husky voice.
She was speaking in a tone I had never heard before, almost a playful coo.
I raised my hand, my fingers cold and trembling. Should I push it open, or turn and run?
In that instant, the booth door was suddenly pulled open from the inside.
A server stepped out, holding an empty tray.
In the moment the door was ajar, the scene inside slammed into my eyes, fully exposed.
Under the crystal chandelier, on the wide, curved sofa.
Savannah wore a sequined, spaghetti-strap dress Id never seen before, her makeup more provocative than when shed left the house.
She was practically draped across a man in a dark dress shirtDr. Gerard Hawthorne, the man from the photo.
One of his hands was brazenly, tightly wrapped around Savannahs slender waist.
The other held a glass of liquor as he leaned down to whisper something in her ear.
This made Savannah laugh, a throaty chuckle that caused her to lean even more relaxed into him.
Her eyes were hazy, her cheeks flushed with an unnatural color.
It was the look of a woman completely immersed in raw intimacy and lust.
Time froze.
Savannahs laughter died in her throat.
She must have sensed the anomaly at the door, and she turned her head languidly.
As her eyes pierced the hazy light and fixed on methe ghost-white figure with a guitar bag at the doorwayher smile instantly fractured.
The haziness in her eyes was replaced in a millisecond by shock, panic, and the sheer embarrassment of being caught red-handed.
She flinched, almost convulsively trying to pull away from the mans embrace.
Rhys? Her voice was a shaky, incredulous whisper.
Dr. Hawthorne also looked up, saw me, and his brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.
There was no panic in his eyes, only the annoyance of being interrupted and a cold, condescending appraisal.
His hand, far from letting go, tightened demonstratively around Savannahs waist, a clear act of provocation.
This final gesture ignited every volcano that had been dormant inside me.
I stood in the doorway. I didnt roar or rage as she might have expected, nor did I beg weakly.
The extremity of the pain and rage brought a bizarre, chilling calm.
My gaze bypassed the other man and fixed solely on Savannahs panic-stricken face. My voice was eerily flat, yet it cut through the din of the music in the booth with crystalline clarity:
Savannah.
My voice wasn't loud, but it was an ice pick in the heart of the illicit air.
Her body gave a sharp shudder. Her lips parted, as if to offer some frantic defense.
I didn't give her the chance.
I want a divorce.

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