Chapter 13: Office Gossip
The grandfather clock in his home office tolled two a.m. Its deep chime shuddered through the mahogany panels of the desk. Arthur hadn’t moved. The monitor was dark now, powered down an hour ago, but the afterimages were seared onto the backs of his eyelids: the spill of her hair across the CFO’s barrel chest, the flex of her naked spine, the way her wedding ring caught the light as her hand slapped, open-palmed, against the headboard for leverage.
Harder, sir.
The words were on a loop, a poisonous earworm. She’d looked directly into the camera’s discreet lens—into his eyes—as she’d said them. Her expression had been one of abandoned ecstasy, yes, but beneath it, an undeniable glint of triumph. It was a broadcast. A targeted transmission. He’d watched the feed, glued to his chair until the moment Eleanor had collapsed beside the sleeping form of their Chief Financial Officer, Gerald Wickham, her body spent, slick, glowing with a fulfillment Arthur had never provided.
Arthur’s hand trembled as he lifted a glass of tepid whiskey. He swallowed, the burn doing nothing to cauterize the deeper wound. The suite. Of course. Wickham’s expense account had discreetly covered a “post-client dinner suite” at The Lexington for the past seven months. Arthur had processed the receipts himself, numbly recording the charges. He’d signed off on them. He’d paid for it.
And then, to see them in his bed. That was the new escalation. The violation wasn’t just of him, but of the one space that was supposed to be a sanctuary. He smelled the ghost of Gerald’s cologne on his own pillow now, a fact confirmed when he’d buried his face in the linens after the limo dropped Eleanor home, her own scent layered with Gerald’s sweat and that other, sharper smell.
He’s a cuckold. It’s his thing.
Eleanor had slipped in at midnight, humming. She’d paused in the doorway of his office, silhouetted in the hall light. “Still up?” she’d asked, her voice languid, syrup-thick. “Don’t work too hard.” A smile in the darkness. Then she’d gone to shower. For twenty minutes. Arthur had sat, listening to the water run, picturing the steam, picturing her scrubbing the night off her skin.
He couldn’t call in sick.Not today. That would be a victory for her. So he put on his grey suit, knotted his tie with fumbling fingers, and drove to the office through a drizzling rain that blurred the world into grey smudges.
Walking from the parking garage felt like entering a theater after missing the first act. The lobby was normal. The elevator was normal. The hushed, carpeted corridor to Accounting was normal. But the silence felt watchful.
He felt it first in the breakroom. He was pouring sludge from the communal pot, his back to the door, when he heard the low murmur.
“…because I’m telling you, Moira saw the whole thing. The kiss, everything.”
Arthur froze. The coffee streamed over the rim of his mug, scalding his thumb.
Another voice, younger, female. Jen from Payroll. “And she was just… cool with it? Moira said she told her he likes it?”
“Her exact word was ‘cuckold’.” It was Brian from Auditing, his voice a gossipy rasp. Arthur’s heart hammered against his ribs. He stared at the brown liquid dripping onto the counter.
“Jesus,” Jen breathed, a sound of appalled fascination. “No.”
“Yes. And get this—after Moira walked away, he followed her out. And guess what the wife did?”
A pause for effect. Arthur’s breath stopped.
“She follows him, and she plants one on him. Right in the hall. Moira said it was aggressive. And she said Eleanor had this look, like she was… sharing a joke. A private, disgusting joke.”
“A sick game,” Jen said.
“Exactly. It’s a pathology. Honestly, poor bastard. Can you imagine?” Brian’s tone was not pitying. It was clinical, the way one might discuss a zoo animal. “The shame of it.”
Arthur could no longer move. He was a statue, a piece of the breakroom decor.
“Who do you think she’s… you know?” Jen’s voice dropped even lower.
“Shhh.”
A chair scraped. They were leaving. Arthur remained motionless, his burned thumb throbbing in time with his pulse. He waited a full minute, listening to the hum of the refrigerator, before he threw the overflowing mug into the sink and walked to his cubicle.
The morning was a gauntlet of loaded silence and flickering glances. He couldn’t concentrate. The spreadsheet before him was a sea of meaningless numbers. At 10:30, he went to the men’s room. Two stalls were occupied. He stood at a urinal, head down.
The flush of a toilet. The sound of a belt buckle.
“—going through with the Singapore acquisition?”
It was Tomás from Legal. Tomás from the party. Tomás whose arm Eleanor had held.
Another flush. David from HR joined them at the sinks.
“Looks like it. Wickham’s pushing hard. Man’s been on a warpath lately. Just… ballistic energy. Closed-door meetings that run for hours.” David chuckled, a knowing sound.
“Makes sense,” Tomás said. There was the sound of paper towels being pulled. “Guy’s practically vibrating. Probably getting some incredible stress relief somewhere.”
A low, shared laugh.
“Careful,” David said, but the warning was empty. “He’s the CFO.”
“Right. It’s just… you hear things.”
“From the holiday party? Yeah.”
Arthur stood, listening, unable to move. He had finished long ago.
“I mean, she’s stunning, you can’t blame him. But Jesus. She’s married to that sad sack in Accounting. Penhaligon.”
“And he knows. That’s the wild part.”
Tomás’s voice grew softer, conspiratorial. “You think Wickham… arranges it? Like, gets off on the husband being a shadow? That’s some psycho shit. Or the wife’s just that cruel.”
“Probably both.” The tap ran. “Either way, she’s brazen. And poor Penhaligon just takes it. Must have a humiliation kink or something. Honestly, makes you wonder what he’s like. Probably into some really weird stuff.”
“Small dick energy,” David said, and they both laughed again, the sound echoing cruelly off the tile.
Arthur finally broke his paralysis, zipping his fly with clumsy hands. He turned, passed them at the sinks without looking up, and left. Their conversation stuttered to a halt, but he felt their eyes on his back, hot as brands.
Back at his desk, a cold fury settled over him, brittle and thin. He opened his email. A notification sat atop his inbox. A system-generated alert regarding expense report approvals, sent to a dozen mid-level managers, including him.
Submitted by: G. Wickham.
Charge: The Lexington Hotel & Suites.
Purpose: Client Entertainment.
Amount: $$$
Approved By: E. Penhaligon (Eleanor Penhaligon, Auxiliary Admin, Wife of A. Penhaligon).
The last line was automatically generated by the new system linking family members for ‘conflict of interest’ transparency. It was intended for anti-fraud measures.
Arthur stared at it. The font seemed to scream. It was there, in black and white, for any of the other recipients to see. Eleanor had approved Gerald’s hotel bill. The laugh that rose in his throat was a dry, choking thing. The brutality of it was so casual, so bureaucratic. He was not even a betrayed husband; he was a footnote in an audit trail.
The whispers followed him to the lunchroom, where he sat alone pushing a salad around a cardboard container. They followed him back. In the afternoon, passing the glass-walled conference room, he saw Gerald Wickham holding court, pointing at a projected graph. He was in his shirtsleeves, his tie loose, radiating a potent, aggressive vitality. Arthur saw the man’s mouth move, saw his strong hands gesticulate. The hands that had gripped his wife’s hips.
Harder, sir.
Wickham’s gaze swept the room and, through the glass, momentarily locked with Arthur’s. The CFO’s expression didn’t change. There was no smirk, no recognition. There was nothing at all. Arthur was a pane of glass, invisible. Worse than an enemy; he was irrelevant. A piece of the furniture in his own life’s horror.
At 4:55, Eleanor texted him.Hey sweetie. Running late—private session ran over. Don’t wait up for dinner. Might grab drinks with the girls. xx
He didn’t reply. He logged off his computer, the hum of it dying with a sigh. As he gathered his coat, he heard two junior analysts by the printer.
“…so they’re definitely sleeping together. It’s a thing.”
“Penhaligon or Wickham?”
“Wickham. Obviously. The word is, Penhaligon watches.”
“No way.”
“Way. It’s called being a cuck. It’s a whole… thing.”
“Jesus. How does he even show his face?”
Arthur walked out, his spine rigid. Their conversation cut off as he passed.
He rode the elevator down alone. In the polished metal doors, his reflection was pale, shrunken, a ghost of a man. The gossip wasn’t just noise. It was a verdict. They had named him, defined him. The wife was a brazen trophy, the other man a powerful animal, and he was the pathetic, willing clown in the middle of their show. The shame wasn’t private anymore. It was in the air, in the water cooler conversations, in the knowing glances. He wore it on his skin, a scent everyone could smell. He drove home in the rain, the windshield wipers keeping time with the single, repeating phrase in his head: Small dick energy. Small dick energy. Small dick energy.