Chapter 28
AVA
T he notification pops up on my phone while I'm making lunch for Poppy. Roman's Instagram username: A new post.
I haven't looked at his social media in weeks. I couldn't stand seeing the headlines, the comments, the endless dissection of our marriage by strangers who think they know our story. But something makes me click on it this time.
Maybe it's the fact that he's been quiet lately. He hasn’t shown up unannounced. No more desperate phone calls or scenes in parking lots that end up on the evening news.
But I have done one thing: I’ve stopped with the whole dating thing. The sad reality is no one makes me feel like Roman does; and that’s because I don't want them to. I feel like I had the most beautiful relationship, and nothing can bring that back, but that’s what I want.
Such a fucking conundrum.
The video starts, and I almost drop my phone.
Roman doesn’t look like Roman; he looks awful . Unshaven, his hair is unwashed and sticking up at odd angles. This isn't the polished Roman Muller who used to do press conferences. This is just...a broken man.
My heart sinks.
"Me again," he says, his voice rough and low. "I fucked up my whole life. My wife. My family. I threw it all away."
I set the peanut butter jar down harder than necessary, my hands suddenly unsteady.
"I've been in therapy a while now," he continues.
Therapy. He's been in therapy, and this is the first I'm hearing about it. Not from him directly, but from a public Instagram video that's probably being watched by thousands of people right now.
I should be angry. I should be furious that he's airing our business, using our pain for content, playing the victim for sympathy.
But he's not asking for sympathy. He's not even asking for anything.
"I'm not looking for pity here. Or forgiveness. I don't deserve either one. I just want to be better. For me. For my daughter who used to think I was some kind of hero. For Ava. Even if I never get her back."
Something twists in my chest. Like it hurts him to say it. Like he's not sure he has the right anymore.
The video ends, and I stare at the black screen, my reflection looking as stunned as I feel.
There's another video from yesterday.
"I watched my wife give a speech yesterday about resilience," he says, and I realize he's talking about the empowerment event. The one where I spoke about finding your voice after trauma, about rebuilding yourself from the ground up.
"She's not just surviving what I did to her.
She's thriving," he continues, and there's something in his voice I've never heard before.
Pride, yes, but also grief. "She doesn't need me to be whole. She never did. Ava, I’m so fucking proud of you, baby.
But if I ever want to be worthy of standing beside her again—if that's even possible—I've got to keep doing this work.
Not for her. For me. Because the man who destroyed our marriage isn't the man I want to be anymore.”
Then it feels like he’s looking directly at me, and I bite my lip.
"I'm done being the guy who breaks everything he touches. Starting right now."
I close the app before I can watch any more. My hands are shaking, and I can't figure out why.
Poppy runs into the kitchen, ponytail bouncing, completely oblivious to the storm happening inside my chest.
"Mommy, can I have the peanut butter sandwich now? I'm starving."
"Of course, baby." I finish making her lunch on autopilot, spreading peanut butter with mechanical precision while my mind races.
Later, after Poppy's in bed, I find myself scrolling through his posts again. There aren't many recent ones—his last post before the therapy videos was from two months ago, some sponsored content for a sports drink that probably dropped him the minute the scandal broke.
The comments on his recent videos are a mix of support and vitriol. Some people call him brave for being vulnerable. Others call him a manipulative asshole who's trying to win back public sympathy.
I don't know which camp I fall into.
The next morning, there's an envelope on the mat when I come back from the park with Poppy. Thick, cream-colored paper. My name written in Roman's unmistakable scrawl across the front.
My heart pounds as I stare at it.
"Mommy, can I watch cartoons?" Poppy asks, already kicking off her shoes and leaving them in the middle of the hallway.
"Sure, sweetheart."
She disappears into the living room, and I'm left alone with the letter that feels like it's burning a hole in the table.
I know he's been quiet lately. I know he's been working on himself—therapy, distance, silence.
Just absence.
It's a different kind of hurt, this silence. The kind that doesn't scream but still echoes.
I make tea with shaky hands. Sit down at the table. Stare at the envelope until the letters of my name start to blur together.
Then I open it.
Ava,
I know you don't owe me shit. Not your time, not reading this, nothing. But I need you to hear me. Not screaming or fighting or throwing words around like I used to when I was losing my mind. Just the truth.
I didn't get what I had until I fucked it all up. Maybe that's what happens to guys like me—we think we're hot shit until we burn everything down.
But I see it now. All of it. How you kept our family together while I was chasing attention from strangers.
How you never asked for much—just for me to be there, be honest, be loyal.
Basic stuff that should've been automatic.
You gave me so many chances to get my shit together, and I threw them all away.
I'm not writing this to ask you to forgive me. I don't get to ask for that anymore. I'm writing because I'm trying to figure out who I am without you.
And fuck, Ava, I hate that guy. But I'm working on it. Every hour of every day.
I'm in therapy. Real therapy. The kind that rips you apart before it puts you back together. Where you can't hide behind trophies or money or the fake version of yourself you show everyone else. It’s fucking hard, facing who I really am, who I’ve been to you.
What I’ve done to us. You’d love my therapist—she doesn’t tolerate my shit either.
I've been making videos. Not for people to feel sorry for me—I know how that looks. For me. So I can tell Poppy someday that her dad fell apart, but he didn't stay broken.
I lost everything. All the endorsement deals. My career is ruined. I lost respect from guys I played with, from fans who used to wear my jersey.
But nothing hurts more than losing the right to walk in a room and see you smile when you see me.
I remember the first time you did that. You were in that coffee shop by campus, studying with some huge textbook. I said something stupid about how big it was, and you laughed. When you looked up at me, your whole face just lit up. Like I was worth being happy to see.
I lived for that look for ten years. And I threw it away for what? Some girl?
I'm not asking you to smile at me again. I'm not asking for anything.
Just want you to know: I loved you. Still do. Always fucking will.
Not the way I did when I was a selfish asshole who thought love meant you belonged to me. Who thought your job was to make me feel like a man instead of doing that work myself.
The way I do now. Quiet. Without expecting anything back. The way you should've been loved all along.
I’m just trying to be better, baby. Even if it's too late for us.
You deserve everything good, Ava. I'm sorry it took losing you to figure that out.
Yours always,
—Roman
I read the letter three times before the words finally sink in. I don’t know what to feel, but that doesn’t sound like the Roman I knew, which has to be a good thing, right?
I fold it carefully and tuck it back into the envelope, my hands steadier now than they were when I opened it.
I sit in the kitchen for a long time after that, listening to Poppy's cartoons, staring at the envelope.
I don't know what this letter means for us. For me. For the future I'm still trying to build from the ashes of the life I thought I wanted.
But I know what it doesn't mean.
It doesn't mean I'm ready to forgive him. It doesn't mean I'm ready to trust him with my heart again. It doesn't mean I'm going to call him or text him or show up at whatever hotel he's staying in now.
It just means I believe, for the first time since this all started, that he might finally be trying to change. Not for me, not for the cameras, not for his image.
For himself.
And damn. I can’t help but root for him.