Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
What the hell happened? My mind races with a thousand terrible possibilities, each worse than the last. Bar fight? Robbery? Someone from his past? The gambling debts I've been pretending not to notice?
I'm scared shitless, my hands trembling as I fumble for my phone on the coffee table. Who do I even call at this hour? The police? An ambulance? Or is this something we need to handle quietly? "We're going to the emergency room. Now."
He doesn't argue, which terrifies me more than his injuries.
At the hospital, the fluorescent lights cast a harsh glow over Reeves’s battered face as we wait in the small exam room.
The doctor, a middle-aged woman with kind and tired eyes, confirms what I'd feared – a broken nose that will need to be reset, two fractured ribs that will take weeks to heal properly, and various contusions splattered across his body, like paint on a brutal canvas.
An eternity later, while we wait for the discharge papers, I sit beside him, my fingers nervously twisting the frayed edge of my sweater.
The antiseptic smell burns my nostrils, mixing with the metallic scent of blood that still clings to Reeves’s clothes.
A nurse passes by, giving us a sympathetic glance through the partially open door.
"I need answers," I finally say, my voice quiet but firm.
The benefit of the doubt I typically extend to everyone has worn dangerously thin tonight.
"The real story, Reeves. All of it,” I demand, leaning forward, my eyes meeting his one good one with an intensity I rarely show.
My heart pounds against my ribs, afraid of what I might hear but knowing we can't go on like this anymore.
"Who did this to you?"
Reeves stares at the ceiling, defeated. "Dan's guys."
"Dan? Your bookie?" My stomach drops. "How much?"
"Twenty grand." His voice is barely audible. "I thought I could win it back."
The anger rises like bile in my throat. Twenty thousand dollars? On top of everything else he's already taken? While I'm working double shifts and worrying about Liam's therapy bills?
"I'm sorry," he whispers, tears mixing with the dried blood on his cheeks. "I can't stop. I've tried."
I pace the small exam room, mind racing. Twenty thousand more dollars we don't have. Our son's future is being gambled away.
Yet looking at Reeves—broken, vulnerable—I remember the boy who helped me reach for that book in college, who held my hand through twenty-six hours of labor, who taught Liam to throw a baseball.
This is real life—messy, painful, imperfect. What I feel for Caine is a fantasy, an escape from reality.
The crushing weight of our circumstances presses down on me as I stand in this sterile hospital room. Twenty thousand dollars might as well be twenty million with our finances.
This moment right here—the hospital bills we can't afford, the gambling debts threatening our safety, the son waiting at home who needs us both—this is what's real. Painful and imperfect as it is, this is my life.
"We'll figure it out," I finally say, taking his hand. "But you need help, Reeves. Real help this time. For Liam. For us."
I dab my brush into the deep crimson paint, adding subtle highlights to the eight ball's reflection.
Painting has become my refuge these past two weeks, the only place where my mind stops racing between thoughts of Caine and worries about Reeves.
The living room has transformed into my sanctuary—easel positioned by the bay window to catch the morning light, drop cloths protecting the hardwood floors, and the scent of paint hanging in the air.
"Almost there," I whisper to myself, standing back to assess my work. It's almost perfect. A perfect thank-you gift to Caine—my final gesture before closing this chapter forever. Once I deliver this painting and express my gratitude one last time, it's officially over.
He needs to be gone from my life, and I need to stop thinking about him every waking moment.
This beautiful piece will be my farewell, a tangible symbol of everything we shared and everything we can never have.
After this, I'll force myself to focus entirely on salvaging what's left of my marriage and rebuilding the trust I've shattered.
Reeves has barely spoken to me since the hospital. Our communication consists of logistics about Liam and the pool hall, nothing more. Our bed might as well be an ocean for all the space between us at night. I don't know how to bridge it anymore, or if I even want to.
And I still feel so horrible about not being honest with him, about not telling him what happened with Caine.
I’ve just been too scared. Scared of his reaction, of a possible retaliation. I’ve been afraid for Caine’s safety.
The doorbell's chime startles me, sending a streak of red across my wrist. I wipe my hands on my already paint-splattered overalls and hurry to answer.
"Delivery for Jenna Sullivan," a well-dressed young guy announces, holding out a glossy black box.
"Thank you," I murmur, accepting the surprisingly heavy package.
I'm shocked by the unexpected delivery, my mind immediately racing to process what this could mean. Not knowing what to think, I stare down at the elegant black box in my hands, its weight substantial and somehow ominous.
Caine instantly comes to mind—who else would send something so mysterious and expensive-looking?
—and my breath hitches at the mere thought of him.
My pulse quickens as I turn the box over in my paint-stained hands, searching for any identifying marks or return address.
There's nothing except the pristine black surface, smooth as silk beneath my fingertips.
The timing feels deliberate, almost cruel.
Just when I've convinced myself that I'm ready to let him go, when I've poured all my conflicted emotions into that painting, something like this arrives at my doorstep.
My throat tightens with a mixture of anticipation and dread, knowing that whatever's inside this box will only complicate an already very messed-up situation.
I sit cross-legged on the hallway floor, studying the embossed Armani logo on the box lid. My heart hammers against my ribs.
Inside, nestled in tissue paper, lies the most beautiful cocktail dress I've ever seen. Black. Simple. Elegant. Timeless. Something Audrey Hepburn would wear. My fingers trace the delicate fabric as I lift it from the box. There's a small card beneath it.
Have dinner with me. Tomorrow night, 8pm. We need to discuss our relationship. I need to know where this is going, Jenna. This is driving me crazy.
Car will collect you. - C
The gall of the man. Why is he doing this to me? Every time I try to forget him, he pulls this shit.
But I get it.
I have been pretty mercurial.
I bite my lip hard enough to taste copper, my eyes darting nervously toward the staircase as if Reeves might somehow materialize from thin air and catch me red-handed with this incriminating evidence.
But he's not here. Is he? He’s at the pool hall working hard, or hardly working, probably flirting with some young girls like I've seen him doing before. He says he's just being friendly, that it's all par for the course.
Still, the guilt gnaws at my stomach like hunger pangs. Here I am, sitting on our hallway floor in the house we share, holding a dress that costs more than our monthly mortgage payment, sent by a man who isn't my husband.
The rational part of my brain screams that this is wrong on every conceivable level, but there's another part—a darker, more selfish part—that whispers how incredible it feels to be desired by someone like Caine Hall. Someone who sees me as more than just a wife or a mom.
He won't know, I tell myself again, the words echoing in the quiet hallway like a mantra. But even as I think it, I can feel the weight of the lie settling into my bones.
The dress is exactly my size. Of course it is. Caine notices everything.
I carefully return it to the box and hide it in the back of my closet, behind my winter sweaters. What am I doing? This is supposed to be over. The painting is meant to be a thank-you and a final goodbye, not an invitation for more.
Yet I find myself imagining the pearls my grandmother left me—my only possession of value—against my neck, complementing the dress's neckline perfectly.
One last night. One final goodbye, but on my terms this time.
How will I ever explain this to Reeves? The thought fills me with dread, but not enough to make me put the dress back in its box and return it.
The meatloaf sits between us like a brick wall, steam rising from its surface while silence fills our kitchen. Liam pushes peas around his plate, humming softly to himself, blissfully unaware of the tension crackling between his parents.
"I need to tell you something." The words tumble out before I lose my nerve.
Reeves looks up from his plate, his dark eyes immediately suspicious. "What now?"
"Caine asked me to dinner. Tomorrow night." I force myself to meet his gaze. "I'm going."
His fork clatters against his plate. "The fuck you are."
"Language," I whisper, glancing at Liam, who's still absorbed in his food.
"Don't you dare tell me about language when you're sitting here telling me you're going on a date with another man." His voice drops to a dangerous growl. "Have you lost your goddamn mind?"
Heat flashes through my chest. "You want to talk about losing minds? How about losing twenty thousand dollars of our son's future?"
"That's different—"
"Is it?" I lean forward, my voice matching his intensity. "You keep secrets, I keep secrets. Seems fair to me."
His jaw clenches, that familiar vein pulsing in his temple. The one that appears right before he explodes. "So that's what this is? Revenge?"
"This is survival, Reeves. You gambled away our safety net. Again. After promising me you'd stopped."
"I had a sure thing—"
"There's no such thing as a sure thing!" The words burst out louder than intended. Liam looks up, his big brown eyes wide with concern.
"It's okay, baby," I say softly, forcing a smile. "Mommy and Daddy are just talking."
Reeves stares at me for a long moment, something dark and ugly shifting across his features. When he speaks again, his voice is cold. Clinical.
"You know what? Go ahead. Go on your fancy date with your rich boyfriend.
" He takes a long swig of beer. "Since you're so determined to whore yourself out, might as well be a high-class one.
Use that magical pussy of yours to earn us some real money for once.
You should do a little negotiating… a million bucks and he gets to fuck you, any way he wants. I'm deadly serious."
The words hit like a physical slap, stealing the air from my lungs and leaving me gasping. My breath catches in my throat, sharp and painful, as if his cruelty has somehow reached across the table and wrapped itself around my windpipe.
The kitchen suddenly feels too small, too bright, the cheerful yellow walls closing in on me like a trap. Heat floods my face—shame, anger, humiliation all mixing together in a nauseating cocktail that makes my stomach lurch.
He’s right. I am a whore.
I can feel Liam's innocent presence beside me, his small body a reminder of everything sacred that Reeves has just desecrated with his vile suggestion. The man I married, the father of my child, has just reduced me to nothing more than a commodity to be sold to the highest bidder.
And he’s not wrong.
"Daddy said a bad word," Liam announces, his voice cutting through the toxic air between us.
"Yes, he did." I stand on shaking legs, my appetite completely gone. "Finish your dinner, sweetheart. Mommy needs to clean up."
I turn away before Reeves can see the tears burning my eyes, my hands trembling as I reach for my plate and stand. The porcelain feels cold against my fingertips, a stark contrast to the heat flooding my cheeks.
I can't let Liam see me like this—falling apart at the kitchen table where we should be sharing a peaceful family dinner.
Instead, I focus on the simple mechanics of clearing dishes from the sink, stacking them with careful precision in the dishwasher, as if the act of creating order might somehow restore what has been shattered between us.
The familiar weight of our everyday plates grounds me, their cheerful yellow pattern a mockery of the darkness that's settled over our home.
Something needs to change.