Pain’s Lberation (The Price of Love #3)
Prologue
prologue
. . .
Olivia
“Crap!” The spoon I’d been using to shovel half-melted Neapolitan ice cream into my mouth clattered to the floor. I dove to retrieve it, fully committed to eating my feelings. When I righted myself on the couch, ice cream carton and spoon safely nestled in my blanket-covered lap, I glanced at the time on my phone—10:37 p.m.
Ethan was late again. No calls, no texts. My only company in the empty house was the pit of dread gnawing at my insides.
The flickering glow of the TV illuminated the dark living room.
“I'm allergic to fabric softener. I majored in comparative literature at Brown. I hate anchovies. And I think I'd miss you even if we never met.”
Man, that’s a good line.
I swooned over Nick Mercer right alongside his on-screen partner, Kat Ellis. This was my third rewatch of The Wedding Date . Cheesy movies were a comforting escape from reality. I sighed, sinking deeper into the cushions and tugging the fleece blanket tighter around my shoulders .
If only real-life love was as simple as a grand romantic gesture and a happily ever after. Real life was messy, painful.
I shifted and winced as a dull ache radiated through my pelvis. The miscarriage had happened five weeks ago, but the physical and emotional scars were still raw. I had hoped this baby would be a new beginning for Ethan and me, a way to heal the widening cracks in our marriage. But like everything else, it had fallen apart.
The sound of a key turning in the lock jolted me from my thoughts. I sat up gingerly, smoothing my hair and wiping away the sticky traces of ice cream and tears. Ethan stepped through the doorway, briefcase in one hand, suit jacket slung over his shoulder. His crisp white shirt was half untucked, top buttons undone to reveal a patch of tanned skin. Sweat glistened on his forehead, and his tie hung askew.
He looked disheveled. Rumpled in a way that went beyond simply working late.
My brow furrowed as he drew closer. There was a smear of something reddish-pink on his collar. Lipstick?
He leaned down and kissed the top of my head. The scent hit me then. Floral and unfamiliar. Perfume. Not his usual cologne. Not my own subtle vanilla body mist.
“Hey, honey. Sorry I'm late again. Crazy day at the office.”
I managed a tight smile, my throat constricting around the words. “It's fine. I’ve been watching a movie.”
He straightened, already pivoting toward the bathroom. “I'm gonna hop in the shower real quick. Don't wait up for me if you're tired.”
“Okay,” I replied, forcing another smile. “I love you. ”
“Love you too,” he called over his shoulder before disappearing down the hall.
My stomach churned, and I slumped back against the couch. Burning tears stung at the corners of my eyes. I knew deep down that Ethan was cheating. Can I blame him?
My body had failed him, failed us. Between a series of devastating miscarriages and the chronic pain, sexual intimacy with Ethan had become a rarity.
I wasn't enough for him anymore. But the alternative—facing life without the man I had loved for the past decade, rebuilding myself from the ground up—was too terrifying to contemplate. So I pretended. I plastered on a brave face and played the role of the doting wife, ignoring the lipstick stains and late nights, the furtive phone calls and flimsy excuses.
This fractured, dysfunctional marriage was better than being alone. It had to be. Because if I admitted the truth, if I finally crumbled under the weight of Ethan's betrayals and my own brokenness, I wasn't sure I would ever be able to put myself back together again.
The movie droned on in the background as I hugged my knees to my chest, silent sobs wracking my frame. I couldn't keep living this way forever. Something had to give. But for now, I would pretend. I would convince myself that this life, this pale imitation of love, was enough.