Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
Jenna
Mid-afternoon sunlight slices through the windows of my office as I rummage through my briefcase for the third time.
My purple notebook—the one with all my color-coded tabs and meticulous notes—isn’t here.
I close my eyes and mentally retrace my morning: coffee, shower, fifteen minutes of trying to find matching shoes while Matthew complained about something and everything.
.. yeah, I left the notebook on my desk at home. Fuck.
Jenna
Stepping out again. Back by 4. Hold my calls.
I hail a cab and slide into the backseat, rattling off my address as I check e-mails on my phone. Three from Benjamin about the Wilson deposition, one from the guardian ad litem confirming our meeting, and—I pause—another text from Colton.
Colton
Found more photos from Mira. I sent it to Riley some months ago. Livy alone at 2am while she’s at club. Can we add to file?
My stomach tightens. Every new piece of evidence against Mira strengthens our case. But these private messages need to stop. I can’t start anything. I can’t just text with him like we’re two normal people wanting to casually exchange. So, I type a quick response:
Jenna
Please send to my office email. Will review tonight.
When we finally pull up to my building, I throw cash at the driver and hurry inside.
The elevator seems slower than usual, each floor a grudging concession to gravity.
I check my watch. 2:52. Still on schedule.
But it’s not the upcoming meeting that has my hands trembling right now.
It’s Colton. I feel guilty for not texting him back.
And it’s ridiculous. Because I feel guilty for wanting to text him back too.
I rush to my front door and I’m already mentally cataloging the exact location of my notebook—left side of desk, under the family court transcripts, next to the coffee mug I probably forgot to rinse out like always.
I’m so focused on this mental map that I nearly miss the unfamiliar shoes by my apartment door.
Women’s shoes. Silver heels with an ankle strap, kicked off haphazardly. Not mine.
I go still. Not mine?
Something cold slithers down my spine.
I approach quietly, key in hand, and do something I’ve never done before… I peek through the peephole before entering my own apartment. Which is stupid, because I don’t see anything with the fisheye focus.
Heart pounding, I just go in.
Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe it’s shoes Isla got me and Matthew threw them out, because he was annoyed.
I go in and he is there, his back to me.
But he’s not alone. And the silver shoes aren’t a gift from Isla.
A woman with long brown hair stands facing him, her arms looped around his neck.
They’re embracing, her body pressed against his, their foreheads touching as they speak in low voices I can’t make out.
My heart hammers against my ribs, each beat sending a rush of blood to my ears until the sound drowns out everything else. I can’t move. Can’t breathe. They’re naked and kissing.
It’s the kiss of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing. The kind of kiss you give another woman on the very couch where your girlfriend usually curls up alone. That’s when I drop my bag—my fingers suddenly too shaky to carry it.
Matthew jerks away from the woman, his face draining of color as he sees me. “Jenna—”
I don’t wait to hear whatever explanation he’s about to offer.
Don’t look at the girl who’s now stammering something about being a friend from work.
Sure. As if. I don’t slam doors or scream or throw things.
Instead, I pick up my bag, walk past them both without a word—straight to the bedroom—where I lock the door behind me and press my back against it.
My legs give out, and I slide to the floor, breaths coming in short, painful gasps.
This seems to turn into my new routine these days.
Seven years.
I press a hand to my mouth, trying to silence the sob that builds in my throat. This isn’t happening. Not today. Not when I have an important meeting in—I glance at my watch with blurry vision—eighty minutes.
“Jenna,” Matthew’s voice comes through the door, soft but urgent. “It’s not what it looks like.”
A laugh bubbles up, hysterical and raw.
Not what it looks like? Is there any phrase more damning, more pathetically cliché? Is he a gynecologist now, examining her pussy?
“Jenna, please. Open the door. Let me explain.”
I stay silent, knees pulled to my chest, back against the door.
If I don’t move, don’t speak, maybe this moment will go away.
Maybe I can stay here until everything outside this room disappears.
The pretty woman with her silver shoes, the meeting I’m now going to be late for, the seven years I’ve wasted on a man who couldn’t even betray me with originality.
“She’s just a friend,” Matthew continues, his voice taking on an edge of frustration. “We were just talking.”
“She was already half-naked you idiot.” Fuck. I’m done.
“It’s not—look, can you just open the door? This is ridiculous.”
“Yes, it’s you that’s been ridiculous for years. Go away, Matthew.” My voice sounds hollow, distant, like it belongs to someone else.
“It’s my bedroom too.”
“Not anymore.”
My heart beats three times and then, a new tone enters his voice—defensive, almost accusatory.
He pounds on the door with such force that it reverberates through my entire body.
“What did you expect? You’re never home.
You’re always working, always with your stupid hockey player.
I bet you fucked him too. This is just me doing what you know best.”
Something shifts inside me. The shock recedes, replaced by a slow-burning anger. “Are you seriously trying to blame me for this?” I scream through the door. I don’t want to see him. Don’t want to look at his stupid face.
“I’m lonely, Jenna. Do you even realize how long it’s been since we had a real conversation? Since you looked at me instead of your phone or your case files?”
Each word lands like a slap. The worst part is, beneath the righteous anger and hurt, I know there’s a grain of truth to what he’s saying.
I have been absent. Distracted. But that doesn’t justify this.
I understand that relationships are a two-way street, but I never expected to walk into this.
No one should have to face something like this.
“Open the damn door!” His patience snaps, and another fist pounds against the wood, making me flinch. “We need to talk about this like adults!”
“Adults don’t cheat on their partners!” I shout back, anger finally breaking through the shock.
“Adults don’t hide in bedrooms!”
Another pound on the door, harder this time. It feels like a punch at me.
“Open up!” Matthew’s voice has changed, grown louder, more demanding.
I’ve never heard him like this before. He keeps on pounding.
One punch follows the next and I can’t breathe.
It scares me. I scramble away from the door, retreating to the far corner of the room.
Tears stream down my face now, hot and unstoppable.
I brush them away with shaking hands, leaving smears of mascara across my fingers. There’s a gasp. My gasp.
“Open.” A punch. “The fucking.” Another punch. “Door. You bitch!”
I hyperventilate now and it’s like my body moves on its own. My bag is still around my shoulder, and I take out my phone. All I can think of right now is that I need help. I can’t face him like this. I can’t. I’m not strong enough. Shaking like aspen leaves, I want to call Isla.
My phone beeps, the sound jarring, while he screams like I was the one who fucked someone else in our apartment.
“Jenna?”
Colton’s voice freezes me mid-sob. My thumb trembles over the red button, but flies to my mouth instead. Too late—a whimper escapes between my fingers.
“Jenna?”
Yeah, it’s one hundred percent not Isla’s voice I hear.
It is Colton.
And I’m so stunned I don’t hang up. I should. I should press end call and pretend this never happened. Pretend I didn’t accidentally dial him of all people. I wanted to call Isla. Isla. Not Colton!
My thumb hovers over the red button. But instead, it drifts up to my mouth, like I can physically hold the sound in. Like I can stop myself from falling apart if I just press hard enough.
A broken cry slips through anyway.
Too late.
He heard it.
I squeeze my eyes shut. God, why him? Why now? Why did my hands betray me like this?
“Jenna? Are you—what is going on? Where are you?”
Something in my chest cracks and I choke on a breath that turns into a sob I can’t swallow back.
“I am…” Another hiccupped breath, useless, humiliating. “At home.”
“What happened?”
I try to answer, I really do, but it comes out wrong. It always comes out wrong. Another sob tears through me and I clamp my hand over my mouth all over again like that might fix it. Like that might undo it.
“Solnyshko…” His voice shifts—softer now—dangerous in its calm. “Tell me what’s going on. Please.”
And that’s it.
That’s the moment everything inside me gives out.
“I walked in on Matthew cheating on me.”
A loud bang hits the door behind me.
“Jenna! I swear to God, if you don’t open this fucking door right now—”
“Is he the one screaming at you like that in the background?” Colton says, his voice suddenly sounding harsh.
“Yes,” I whisper, shaking. “I locked myself in, but he keeps punching the door.”
Another hit. Closer this time. I cry out again. I’m useless. I know.
“Stay where you are,” Colton says immediately. His voice turns razor-sharp. “I’m coming. Don’t turn your phone off.” A pause—barely controlled. “That bastard better pray he’s still breathing when I get there.”