The Hotel Room: His Broken Vows

Chapter Twelve - Kate

CHAPTER TWELVE

Kate

Kate sat on the closed lid of the toilet, the pregnancy test trembling in her hands, though she already knew. She felt it, even before the second pink line bloomed clear as day on the small plastic screen.

Positive.

She stared at it, unblinking.

The tiny, unmistakable symbol confirming the impossible.

Pregnant.

A hollow breath escaped her lips, and she didn’t know if she felt numb or overwhelmed or both.

Her hand pressed unconsciously to her stomach, her mind a blur.

How could this be happening?

Of all the times—of all the moments —why now?

Her marriage was over. Shattered beyond repair. She’d told James there was nothing left between them, that they were done. She’d stood in front of him, spine straight, voice cold, and made it clear they could never go back.

And now?

Now she was tied to him for another eighteen years.

Not as his wife.

Not as the partner she’d once been.

But as the mother of another child they had created together.

Another link binding her to him—whether she wanted it or not.

The tears welled before she could stop them.

What am I going to do?

James had been so quick to remind her how financially dependent she was, how he paid for the house, the bills, the life they’d built together. And the truth of it sat heavy in her chest, colder than the tile beneath her bare feet.

He wasn’t wrong.

She didn’t have a career. She hadn’t worked since Noah was born. Her entire world had been built around their family, around supporting him while he climbed the corporate ladder.

How was she supposed to raise three children alone? How could she afford to stay in the house? How could she even consider leaving if it meant uprooting everything her children knew?

She wasn’t ready for this. She wasn’t ready for the conversations. The custody battles. The inevitable, exhausting questions from Noah and Lily.

Her stomach twisted painfully, her hand pressing firmer against it.

It’s not the baby’s fault.

The thought pierced through all the noise.

The fear. The resentment. It wasn’t her baby’s fault.

And in the quiet, in the heartbeat of silence where everything else fell away, the fear was suddenly…softer.

This was her child, already loved, already wanted.

A tiny hand curled around her finger. Soft skin. That perfect scent of newborn hair. She imagined holding them for the first time, the weight of a perfect, precious life pressed against her chest.

Her heart ached with the wanting of it.

This baby was hers.

No matter what James had done.

No matter how broken things felt between them.

Tears slipped silently down her cheeks. She would figure this out. She had to.

But the ache lingered. The crushing weight of what this would mean.

Because whether she wanted it or not, James would be a part of this too.

And she couldn’t imagine telling him without it breaking her heart all over again.

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Kate stood alone in the guest room, the door closed, a faint sliver of afternoon sunlight spilling in through the half-drawn curtains. The pale glow lit up the blank canvas in front of her, untouched, waiting.

The painting supplies had been in the back of the closet, buried beneath Christmas boxes and forgotten albums. She hadn’t thought about them in years .

But when she’d been sorting through the clutter earlier—trying to feel useful in this house where she now felt like a stranger—her fingers had brushed over the old wooden paintbox.

She could have left it there. Could have shoved it deeper into storage like she always had.

But something—some quiet, aching pull—made her take it out.

And now here she was, brush in hand, heart pounding louder than it should have for something so simple.

The truth was, she had nothing else to give right now.

She’d poured herself into this family for seventeen years—given everything she had to James, to the kids, to being a wife and a mother. And now, in the quiet aftermath of his betrayal, she felt…empty.

Like she wasn’t even sure who she was without them.

Or worse—if there was anything left of her at all.

Her hand tightened around the brush, the wooden handle familiar, worn. She dipped it carefully into the paint, the deep, rich blue coating the bristles.

It wasn’t like before, when she used to paint soft, delicate florals or calm seascapes—the things James had once called beautiful and graceful .

No. This wasn’t graceful at all.

She pressed the brush to the canvas, and the stroke came out jagged, raw, the blue bleeding unevenly across the stark white.

Another stroke. Then another.

And before she even realized what was happening, the motions became faster, messier, the colors darkening—indigo, charcoal gray, deep wine red—layer after layer until the canvas wasn’t soft or pretty anymore.

It was chaotic.

It was aching .

It was her .

Kate didn’t know how long she stood there, lost in the rhythm of it. Of color. Movement. The release of everything she’d been holding back for weeks.

The betrayal. The anger. The unbearable, suffocating ache of knowing her marriage—the life she had built so carefully—was over.

And beneath all that—something quieter.

The secret she hadn’t told anyone yet.

The baby.

Her free hand drifted unconsciously to her stomach, fingers curling there as if to shield it.

She hadn’t told James. Hadn’t told anyone .

Because how could she? How could she explain that she was carrying his child while she was also trying to figure out how to walk away from him?

It felt impossible.

But when she looked at the canvas now, the sharp reds had softened into something else. A pale, almost hopeful gold weaving through the storm.

And she realized—

She wasn’t painting just pain anymore.

She was painting survival .

This—this was hers .

Not James’s. Not tied to the betrayal. Not even tied to the baby she hadn’t yet told the world about.

It was the first thing she’d done just for herself in longer than she could remember.

And it didn’t fix everything.

But as she stood there, hands stained with color, heart a little less heavy, it felt like a start.

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The slam of the front door echoed through the house, sharp enough to make Kate flinch from where she stood in the kitchen, halfway through chopping vegetables for dinner.

Noah was home.

And from the sound of it, he was still angry.

Lily had been dropped off from choir practice an hour ago, already curled up on the couch, watching cartoons while her schoolbooks lay untouched. But Noah had been out late again, hanging with Emily, pushing his curfew more and more every week.

Kate wiped her hands on a dishtowel, bracing herself. She had tried— really tried—not to push too hard, to give him space. But the distance was stretching too far, and she could feel it every time he looked at her with those cold, accusing eyes.

She heard the heavy thud of his backpack hitting the floor in the hallway before he appeared, looming in the doorway, hands stuffed deep into his pockets.

He didn’t look at her. Just stared past her, toward the fridge, jaw tight.

“Hey,” she said, keeping her voice gentle. “You’re late. Dinner’s almost ready—”

“I already ate,” he muttered, cutting her off.

Kate swallowed hard. Calm. Stay calm.

“Okay. You could’ve texted to let me know. I was worried.”

Noah finally met her gaze, but there was nothing soft in his expression. His eyes were sharp, guarded—so much like James’s when he was hurt but trying not to show it.

“Why?” His voice was flat. “Not like you care what I’m doing anymore.”

The words stung, sharp and direct.

“Noah, that’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” He crossed his arms, shoulders tight, the anger radiating off him in waves. “You walked out on Dad. You left. And now we’re all supposed to just…what? Pretend everything’s fine because you decided to come back?”

Kate’s stomach twisted. She felt the familiar ache building—the helplessness, the guilt she couldn’t explain without destroying his image of his father.

He doesn’t know. He can’t know.

“I do care,” she said quietly, trying to keep her voice steady. “I love you and I’m doing the best I can, Noah. For you. For Lily.”

Noah’s eyes narrowed. “No, you’re not. You didn’t even try to fix things with him. You just left. You didn’t fight. You didn’t care enough to—”

“ Stop. ”

The knife trembled in her hand, and she set it down with a soft clink against the cutting board.

She turned fully toward him now, heart pounding painfully in her chest.

“Don’t you dare say I didn’t care. You have no idea how hard this is for me. I came back here, didn’t I? For you . For Lily. Because you both deserve to have a home. To have stability.”

Noah’s face twisted, bitter.

“Yeah? Until the next time it’s easier for you to run away from him instead of actually fixing things?”

The words hit harder than they should have.

Because deep down, she was running.

From the house. From James.

From the truth pressing heavier against her chest every day.

The baby.

The tiny, growing life she was keeping secret, locked inside her body like a wound she couldn’t share yet.

Because telling Noah—telling anyone —would make it too real.

Would make it impossible to hold onto the sliver of distance she was barely managing to keep between herself and James’s betrayal.

Her stomach twisted sharply again—not just from the words, but the lingering nausea that had followed her daily now. She pressed a hand against her abdomen, breath tight.

“Noah,” she whispered, voice breaking just a little, “I am trying. I’m trying to protect you both.”

His gaze hardened further, shaking his head.

“From what? Dad? Because he still loves you, Mom. He told me. You’re just—”

He cut himself off, voice thick, as if saying it aloud would be too much.

Kate blinked hard, the ache rising so painfully she had to turn away.

“I need you to trust me on this,” she said, barely above a whisper. “There are things you don’t understand.”

Noah scoffed. “Yeah? Then maybe you should explain it. ”

And with that, he stormed out of the kitchen, footsteps echoing as he headed upstairs.

The door slammed shut.

Silence.

Kate closed her eyes, pressing her hands flat against the counter, the ache expanding until it felt like it might swallow her whole.

She didn’t even hear Lily come in until her daughter’s small voice broke the quiet.

“Mommy?”

Kate turned, blinking away the tears, forcing a smile that felt brittle and wrong.

“Yes, baby?”

Lily hesitated, her wide, worried eyes flicking toward the staircase.

“Is Noah mad at me too?”

Kate’s heart cracked completely then. She crouched, pulling Lily gently into her arms, pressing a kiss to her hair.

“No, sweet girl. He’s just…he’s confused. And hurting. But it’s not your fault. I promise.”

Lily nodded, snuggling closer but staying quiet.

Kate held her tighter, breathing her in, letting the warmth of her daughter’s small body ground her.

When Lily finally let go, retreating back to the couch, Kate stood there for a long time, arms wrapped around herself as if trying to hold all the broken pieces together.

And that night, after the kids were asleep and the house was finally quiet again, she crept back into the guest room.

The unfinished canvas sat where she’d left it, the colors from the night before still raw and dark, streaked with wild brush strokes of pain she hadn’t dared speak aloud.

She picked up the brush again, her hand trembling—but this time, she wasn’t painting anger .

She was painting the ache.

The unbearable ache of being misunderstood.

Of being invisible.

The joy of carrying something precious and fragile and undeniably hers , and the pain of knowing it would forever link her to a man who had already broken her heart.

The brush moved on its own.