Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
My hands shake as I pace the small office, waiting for Reeves to finish his conversation with Greg at the bar. The walls feel like they're closing in, covered with old tournament photos and receipts pinned to a corkboard. I've rehearsed the words a hundred times, but none of them feel right.
When he finally walks through the door, his smile dies instantly.
"What's wrong?" He closes the door behind him, studying my face. "You look like you're about to puke."
I can't meet his eyes. "We need to talk."
"About what?" But his voice already carries that edge—the one that appears when he knows bad news is coming. He takes a seat on one of the leather chairs.
I sit in the other one, and I study the walls for a long time. I inhale a deep breath and close my eyes. My eyes tear up under closed lids. This is so hard. "I… slept with Caine." The words tumble out in a rush. "Twice."
Silence. Complete, suffocating silence. I force myself to look at him, and the expression on his face—confusion morphing into understanding and finally settling into utter devastation—makes my stomach twist with nausea.
The gravity of the situation presses down on me, leaving me breathless and fearful of what comes next.
He slumps down into his chair. I'm shocked he hasn't thrown something yet—he's surprisingly calm. "When?" His voice is barely a whisper.
God, this is so painful. "The first time… was at his office." I can barely breathe. “Three weeks ago or so. And last night, after dinner."
He lowers his head into his hands. "Where?"
"In his car."
He's so still, I wonder if he's stopped breathing. Then something shifts in his face, and I recognize the warning signs—the way his jaw tightens, his eyes darken, and his hands curl into fists. There's so much hatred in his expression. I brace myself for the hit.
"You’re a fucking whore."
The words hit like ice water.
"My wife. The mother of my son. Spreading her legs for some rich asshole in the back of a car like a goddamn prostitute.”
I stand and reach for him. “Reeves, please—"
"Please, what?" His voice explodes through the small space. "Please understand? Please forgive me for being a selfish slut?"
Before I can react, he's towering over me, and he slaps me across the face. Hard. The sharp crack echoes off the walls as I stumble back into the leather chair. My face burns, shock rendering me speechless.
"I'm going to kill him." His voice is now deadly calm, which terrifies me more than his yelling. "I'm going to find that piece of shit and beat him to death with my bare hands."
"Reeves—"
But he's already gone, slamming the door so hard the tournament photos rattle on the wall.
I sit frozen, hand pressed to my stinging cheek, when Liza appears in the doorway. Her face falls when she sees me.
"I gather it didn't go well."
I shake my head, tears finally spilling over. "He hit me."
She's beside me in an instant, examining my face. "That bastard. Are you okay?"
"I deserve it," I whisper.
"No." Her voice is fierce. "You don't. Even cheating doesn't give him the right to hit you. Ever."
Two days have dragged by like molasses since I confessed everything to Reeves. Every second feels heavy with dread and worry. I haven't seen him at the house or heard his voice, just tense silence filling the spaces where he used to be.
My mind spins with terrible scenarios—him at the poker table with nothing to lose, drowning in booze, or worse, tracking Caine down, fueled by rage.
Dropping Liam at his school, I force a smile as he waves goodbye. His trusting eyes are a painful reminder of everything at stake. Once he's inside, I rush to my car, ignoring the tears threatening to spill. I need answers.
The pool hall is quiet as I enter, the familiar scent of oak and beer hanging in the air. Greg is behind the bar, absently wiping glasses. His gaze lifts as I approach, his brow furrowing.
"Hey, Jenna," he greets cautiously, taking in the worry etched across my face.
"Greg," I blurt, heart pounding. "Have you seen Reeves?"
He shakes his head. "Not since the other night. What happened the other night?"
My stomach twists. The space between us feels like an endless void. "I don't know where he is."
Greg frowns, setting the glass down. "You want me to ask around? Maybe he's just blowing off steam."
Blowing off steam. The phrase feels like a euphemism too light for the darkness I'm imagining. "He wouldn't just leave us, though. Not without telling me. Not without taking Liam into account."
Greg sighs, his eyes a mix of concern and something I can't quite place. "It's Reeves’s way, you know? He struggles to deal with shit sometimes."
My heart aches at the truth in his words. "I'm worried," I confess, voice dropping. "Worried he's gambling, or... or worse."
His expression softens. "I'll keep an eye out, Jenna. And I'll call if I hear anything."
I nod, though it's little comfort when the reality is so uncertain. "Thanks, Greg. I appreciate it."
Greg nods again, a faint shadow of pity in his eyes that I can't bear. I turn away, the aching void of Reeves’s absence pounding in my chest. Where are you, Reeves?
I head to the back office. It used to be my quiet sanctuary, a reprieve from the constant buzz of the hall.
Now it's forever changed, stained by memories of that heinous slap.
The silence rings in my ears, louder than the bustle I left behind.
I lean over the desk, blowing a shaky breath, trying to collect the fractured pieces of my composure.
Reeves out there somewhere, perhaps in trouble or searching for Caine, feeds my fears. Liam's future, our family's... Everything hangs in a precarious balance.
My phone buzzes against the kitchen counter as I'm cleaning dinner dishes, the sound cutting through the quiet hum of the evening.
Liam is upstairs, finally asleep after asking for the hundredth time when Daddy is coming home.
I dry my hands on the dish towel, heart already racing before I even see Caine's name on the screen.
"Hello?"
"Jenna." His voice is tight, strained in a way I've never heard before. "We need to talk."
My knees buckle slightly, and I grip the counter. "What happened?"
"Reeves showed up at my office today. Security had to escort him out."
The dish towel slips from my fingers. "Oh God. Was he... did he hurt you?"
"He tried to get past the front desk, but Marco and his team handled it." Caine pauses, and I hear him exhale slowly. "Jenna, he was drunk. Really drunk. Screaming about what I’ve done to his family."
Shame burns through my chest like acid. "I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry, Caine."
"Did you tell him?" His words hang in the air between us, each syllable weighted with dread. "About us? About what we've been doing?"
"Yes." The word comes out as barely a whisper, my voice catching in my throat as the admission hangs between us like a confession.
I can hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears, drowning out everything else except the terrible silence on the other end of the line.
"Two days ago. I thought... I thought it was the right thing to do. "
The silence stretches between us like a chasm, heavy and suffocating. I can hear him breathing on the other end of the line, each exhale deliberate and controlled in that way that's so distinctly Caine.
My own breath comes in shallow gasps as I wait for his response, my free hand gripping the edge of the counter so tightly my knuckles have gone white. The kitchen clock ticks loudly in the background, marking each agonizing second that passes without words.
I want to fill the void, to say something—anything—that might make this better, but my throat feels constricted, my voice trapped somewhere deep inside my chest. The weight of my confession hangs in the air between us, and I can almost feel the shift in everything we've built together, the fragile foundation of our relationship cracking under the pressure of reality.
"It was the right thing to do,” he finally says.
"No, it wasn't!" My voice cracks. "Look what's happened. He's spiralling, and now you're in danger because of me."
"Jenna, listen to me." His tone softens, becomes that familiar warmth that always undoes me. "Were you afraid when you told him?"
I think of Reeves’s hand striking my cheek, the sharp shock of pain that radiated across my face, followed by the deeper ache that settled into my bones. The way his wedding ring had caught the light for just a moment before impact. The stunned silence that followed.
But worse than the physical pain was hearing him call me a whore, the word spilling from his lips with such venom, such disgust. The man who used to whisper sweet things in my ear, who called me his Jenny Bee, had looked at me like I was nothing more than dirt beneath his boots."Yes."
"Then you were brave. You did what needed to be done."
Tears blur my vision. "I should never have... we should never have..."
"Don't say that." His voice turns fierce. "Don't you dare regret what we have."
"But look at the mess—"
"I would do it all again, Jenna. Every kiss, every touch. If I could go back in time, I'd make love to you all over again." The raw honesty in his voice steals my breath. "The only thing I'd change is that I'd have found you sooner."
I press my hand to my mouth, trying to hold back a sob. The kitchen feels too small, the walls closing in around me, and this impossible situation I've created.
"Are you safe?" I finally manage.
"I will be. But what about you?"
"I am," I tell him. "I'm not worried about me. I can't explain it… I know he would never hurt me."
I hear a long sigh of relief, and the sound warms my heart.
"Are you sure?" he asks.
"I am," I assure him. "But listen… I'm worried about you, Caine. Promise me you'll be careful… that you'll watch your back."
"I promise."
"God, I'm so sorry, Caine. I never meant for all this to happen."
"Don't worry, baby… but yeah, we really fucked shit up," he says, pointing out the obvious.. “Both of us did."
"Yep… we sure did."
The sound of the front door opening makes me drop the sweater I'm folding. My heart leaps as footsteps echo through the hallway - heavy, familiar boots on our hardwood floors.
"Reeves?"
I rush toward the entryway, relief flooding through me like warm water. Three days. Three days of not knowing where he went, if he was safe, if he was ever coming back. Three days of Liam asking where Daddy was while I made up stories about work trips.
He stands in the doorway, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, looking exhausted. Dark circles shadow his eyes, and his beard is scruffier than usual. But he's here. He's alive. He's home.
"Thank God." I throw my arms around him before I can stop myself, burying my face against his chest. He smells like stale cigarettes and something sharper - whiskey, maybe. "I was so worried. I didn't know where you were.”
His body remains rigid against mine. No arms wrapping around me, no kiss pressed to the top of my head. Nothing. After a moment, I pull back, studying his face. His dark eyes stare through me like I'm made of glass.
"Daddy!" Liam comes barreling down the stairs, and Reeves’s entire demeanor shifts. His face softens as he kneels, opening his arms wide.
"Hey, buddy. Did you miss me?"
"I missed you so much! Mommy said you were working, but I knew you weren't at the pool hall because we went there yesterday."
Reeves shoots me a look over Liam's head - cold, accusatory. My cheeks burn.
I make his favorite dinner. Pot roast with potatoes and carrots, the recipe my mother taught me years ago. I set the table with our good plates, light a candle, try to create some semblance of normalcy.
We sit in silence except for Liam's chatter about his day at school. Reeves responds to our son with forced enthusiasm, but when Liam asks him a question about me, Reeves’s jaw tightens.
"Ask your mother."
The words cut deeper than any accusation. I pick at my food, my appetite gone. This isn't anger anymore - this is something colder. More final.
When bedtime comes, he doesn't even look at me as he heads to the guest room with his pillow. The click of the door feels like a verdict.
I lie in our empty bed, staring at the ceiling. Maybe I deserve this. Maybe this silent treatment is exactly what I've earned. But the uncertainty gnaws at me worse than his anger ever could.
Does he want to fix this? Or is this his way of letting our marriage die slowly, quietly, without words?
I'm restocking the beer cooler when Liza's sharp intake of breath makes me look up. Beautiful Caine is walking in our direction, shoulders squared and jaw set with determination.
"Holy shit," Liza whispers. "Does he have a death wish?"
My heart stops.
He's wearing that charcoal suit that makes his eyes look like emeralds, but there's something different about him today—something dangerous and resolute.
He surveys the pool hall until his gaze finds mine, and I see the flash of concern that crosses his features when he takes in my appearance. I know I look like hell. I haven't slept, barely eaten, and the stress of the last few days has left me hollow-eyed and pale.
But I couldn’t give a shit about that right now.
What in the hell is he doing here?