Business Trip
"When his wife can't make it to her mother's gallery opening in another city, he goes alone to represent the family. One too many glasses of champagne in her hotel suite, and years of subtle tension explode."
"I can't go."
Meredith's voice is apologetic, exhausted. She's been in bed for two days with the flu—the real thing, not the Instagram version. Fever, chills, the works.
"I know," I say. "Don't worry about it."
"But Mom's gallery opening—"
"I'll go."
She blinks at me. "Alone?"
"Someone should be there. She's been planning this for months."
"You'd do that?"
"Of course." I lean down, kiss her forehead. "Get some rest. I'll give Victoria your love."
The flight to Chicago is three hours.
I spend it trying not to think about Victoria.
My mother-in-law is sixty-two, a retired art curator turned gallery owner, and the most intimidating woman I've ever met. She's slim, elegant, always dressed like she's about to attend a board meeting. Silver hair cut in a sharp bob. Cheekbones that could cut glass. Eyes that see everything.
She's never been warm to me—not cold, exactly, but careful. Measuring. Like she's still deciding whether I'm good enough for her daughter.
After five years of marriage, I'm still waiting for the verdict.
She picks me up at O'Hare.
"Ryan." She kisses both my cheeks—European, performative. "Thank you for coming."
"Meredith sends her apologies."
"I know. She texted." Victoria's mouth tightens. "It's fine. I understand."
But I can tell it's not fine. This gallery is her baby—her post-retirement passion project. Having it open without her daughter there stings.
"I'm here," I offer. "For whatever that's worth."
She looks at me. Something in her expression shifts.
"It's worth something," she says quietly. "More than you know."
The gallery is stunning.
Modern art, mostly—Victoria's taste runs avant-garde—but curated with an eye for balance. The crowd is affluent, cultured, exactly the kind of people who drop six figures on a canvas.
Victoria works the room like a queen. I stay in her orbit, playing the dutiful son-in-law, making small talk with strangers. When she introduces me, she puts her hand on my arm.
"This is Ryan. Meredith's husband."
The possessive way she says Meredith's husband does something to me. Like she's reminding herself. Or me.
Champagne flows. By hour three, I've lost count of glasses.
"Enjoying yourself?" Victoria appears at my elbow. She's flushed—success, alcohol, both.
"It's impressive. You should be proud."
"I am." She takes a sip of champagne. "Though I'm ready for it to be over. These heels are killing me."
"Then let's get out of here."
She raises an eyebrow. "The opening isn't finished."
"The important people have seen you. The paintings will sell themselves." I'm drunker than I thought. Bolder. "You deserve a break."
She studies me. "And what would we do?"
"Whatever you want."
Another long look. Then she smiles—small, private.
"Give me twenty minutes."
Her hotel suite is ridiculous.
Penthouse level. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A living room bigger than my first apartment.
"Drink?" She's already at the minibar. "I have champagne. Or something stronger."
"Stronger."
She pours whiskey. Hands me a glass. Our fingers brush.
"Sit," she says. Not a request.
I sit on the couch. She kicks off her heels with a groan—the most human sound I've heard her make—and sits beside me. Closer than necessary.
"Can I be honest with you?" she asks.
"Please."
"When Meredith told me she couldn't come, I was devastated." She swirls her whiskey. "Not surprised. She's always been... unreliable. But devastated."
"She's really sick, Victoria."
"I know. I'm not blaming her." She takes a drink. "But then you offered to come in her place. And I thought—" She stops.
"Thought what?"
"I thought: maybe this is better."
The words hang in the air. I should ask what she means. I already know.
"Victoria—"
"You've always been careful around me." She turns to face me. "Polite. Respectful. The perfect son-in-law."
"Is that bad?"
"It's exhausting." She sets down her glass. "I see the way you look at me when you think I'm not watching. I've seen it for years."
My mouth goes dry. "I don't know what you—"
"Don't." Her voice sharpens. "Don't insult my intelligence. And don't insult yourself by lying."
Silence. The city glitters below us, and I'm trapped in her gaze.
"I look at you too," she says quietly. "Have since the wedding. My daughter in white, so happy, and all I could think was—" She stops. Shakes her head. "I'm a terrible mother."
"You're not."
"I want my daughter's husband." She looks at me. "I've wanted him for five years. How is that not terrible?"
I should leave. Make an excuse. Go back to my room and pretend this conversation never happened.
Instead, I put down my glass and close the distance between us.
She kisses like she does everything else: controlled, precise, commanding.
Her hands fist in my shirt. Her tongue strokes mine. She tastes like whiskey and want.
"We shouldn't," she breathes between kisses.
"No."
"Meredith—"
"I know."
"This is wrong."
"I know."
But neither of us stops.
I push her back on the couch. She's slim beneath me—all angles and elegance—but she wraps around me like she's been waiting for this. Maybe she has. Five years of waiting, and it ends here.
"Bedroom," she commands.
I carry her.
She undresses like she's shedding armor.
Jacket first, folded neatly. Blouse, unbuttoned with deliberate fingers. Skirt, unzipped, stepped out of. Every layer removed reveals more—slim waist, modest breasts in a black lace bra, legs that seem to go forever.
She's sixty-two.
She's the most desirable woman I've ever seen.
"Your turn," she says.
I strip. She watches, that measuring look in her eyes, but when I'm naked, she smiles.
"Meredith is lucky," she murmurs. "I raised a lucky girl."
"Victoria—"
"Don't talk." She pulls me toward the bed. "I've waited too long for this. Just fuck me."
She's tight.
That's my first thought as I slide inside her—tighter than Meredith, than anyone. She gasps, arches, pulls me deeper.
"Yes—God—yes—"
I start to move. She matches my rhythm immediately, her hips rising to meet each thrust. She's not passive, not tender—she fucks like she runs a business. Efficiently. Ruthlessly. Demanding exactly what she wants.
"Harder," she orders. "I'm not fragile."
I give her harder. Pound into her until the headboard slams the wall. She cries out—sharp, staccato—and rakes her nails down my back.
"That's it—that's it—don't stop—"
She comes with a shudder and a moan, her body clenching around me. I try to hold back, but she's too tight, too hot, and when she whispers come inside me, I'm lost.
I empty myself into my mother-in-law. Collapse beside her on the ruined sheets.
We're both breathing hard.
"Well," she says finally. "That was inevitable."
"Was it?"
"From the moment we met." She turns to look at me. "The question is: what do we do now?"
We do it again.
On the desk, her legs wrapped around my waist. In the shower, hot water cascading over us. In the bed again, at 3 AM, when neither of us can sleep.
By morning, I've fucked my mother-in-law more times than I can count.
"This can't happen again," she says over room service.
"No."
"It was a mistake. Champagne and loneliness."
"Right."
"When you go home, you'll be Meredith's husband. I'll be her mother. Nothing changes."
"Nothing changes."
She sips her coffee. I eat my eggs. The city wakes up below us.
"Although," she says carefully, "I do come to visit. Four times a year. And Meredith usually works during my trips."
I look at her. "Victoria."
"I'm just noting a fact." Her eyes meet mine. "What you do with that information is up to you."
I fly home that afternoon.
Meredith is feeling better. She meets me at the door, still pale but smiling.
"How was it? Did Mom behave?"
"She was charming." I kiss my wife. "Sent her love."
"I'll call her later." She takes my hand. "I missed you."
"I missed you too."
We go to bed. I make love to my wife—gentle, familiar. She falls asleep in my arms.
I lie awake, thinking about Victoria.
Three months later, she visits.
Meredith has a conference. Victoria arrives on a Thursday. I pick her up at the airport.
"Ryan." She kisses my cheek. "Good to see you."
"You too."
We make small talk on the drive. Weather. Work. Meredith's career.
At the house, I carry her bags inside. She walks through the rooms like she owns them—inspecting, approving.
"Meredith's flight was delayed," she says. "She won't be back until tomorrow."
"I know."
"That gives us—" She checks her watch. "—eighteen hours."
"It does."
She turns to face me. Unbuttons her jacket.
"Lock the door, Ryan."
I lock it.
Nothing changes, she said.
Everything changes.