Chapter 29
AVA
T he message comes through just after eight, while I'm curled up on the couch with a glass of wine and a book I haven't actually been reading for the past hour.
ROMAN: I'm not asking for another chance. Just dinner. No expectations.
I stare at the screen until the words blur together. Read it again. Then again.
There's a moment—half a heartbeat—where I go to delete it.
My finger hovers over the screen, my heart in my throat.
Whatever I decide now could change everything.
Everything about him still carries the risk of destruction.
The risk of falling back into old patterns, old hurts, old versions of myself that I've worked so hard to leave behind.
But I don't delete it.
Instead, I set the phone down and walk to my closet.
Stand there for ten minutes, staring at hangers full of clothes that represent the woman I've become since he left.
Professional blazers from speaking engagements.
Casual dresses for coffee dates with friends who've helped me rebuild my social circle.
Workout clothes that have seen me through countless therapy sessions disguised as runs through the park.
Then I see it. The red dress.
It's hanging in the back, like I was hiding it from myself.
Like I wasn't sure I'd ever be brave enough to wear it again.
It still fits like a second skin when I slide it on, still feels like power when the fabric settles over my curves.
I smooth it over my hips, checking my reflection in the mirror.
The woman looking back at me isn't the broken wife who discovered her husband's betrayal.
She's not the shell of a person who cried herself to sleep for months.
She's someone new. Someone stronger.
I add lipstick—again, blood red to match the dress—and pin my curls to one side, the way I used to when we first started dating and everything felt like a possibility.
He used to say this dress made me look like sin and salvation all at once.
Like something he wanted to worship and destroy in equal measure.
I won't be wearing it for him tonight, though.
I wear it for myself. For the woman who survived his betrayal and came out the other side with her head held high.
The restaurant he picked is quiet. Not flashy or trying to impress anyone.
Just one of those tucked-away places with soft lighting and dark wood tables where conversations happen in hushed tones.
When I arrive, he's already there, sitting at a corner table with his back to the wall like he's protecting himself from the world.
Roman Muller.
Once, he looked like a king at every table—confident, magnetic, bigger than any room he walked into. The kind of man who commanded attention without asking for it, who made heads turn and conversations stop just by existing.
But tonight?
He's just a man.
His shoulders are still broad, but they carry weight now.
Real weight, not just the physical kind he's always been proud of.
His jaw is tight, but not in the defensive way I remember from our worst fights.
And his eyes, when they meet mine across the restaurant, don't burn with the rage or ego I've grown accustomed to.
They're shattered. Like looking into broken glass that's been carefully swept up but never quite put back together.
But fuck me, he’s still the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.
"Hey," he says, standing up as I approach. His voice is low, careful, like he's afraid speaking too loudly might shatter whatever temporary peace exists between us.
I nod, sliding into the seat across from him. The red dress clings when I sit, fabric shifting against leather upholstery. His gaze flickers to it for just a moment, recognition flashing in his eyes, then away.
"Thanks for coming," he remarks.
I lift a brow. "You said you had no expectations."
He smiles, but there's no cockiness in it. No trace of the arrogant athlete who always believed he could charm his way out of any situation. "I meant it."
Silence stretches between us. Not tense, exactly.
Just heavy with all the things we've said to each other and all the things we haven't.
With memories of who we used to be and uncertainty about who we are now.
He orders water when the server approaches.
I do the same, surprising myself. I'd expected to need alcohol to get through this.
"I've been going to therapy," he says after a minute, like he's reading from a script he's practiced. "Three times a week."
I nod. "I saw your videos."
He gives a small laugh that sounds more like a sigh. "Ouch. Never thought I'd be a man crying on social media for the world to see, but here we are."
"You're trying," I state, and I mean it. Because, despite the anger I still carry and the trust he's shattered, I can see it. The effort. The genuine attempt to be different.
He nods slowly. "I’m trying not to be the man who ruins everything good just because he never learned how to hold it without crushing it."
That one cuts deep. Hits something tender I thought I'd armoured over.
I take a sip of water, using the moment to collect myself. "I got your letter."
He doesn't ask what I thought of it or push for forgiveness or any of the things the old Roman would have demanded.
He just waits. After a minute, "I meant every word," he explains instead, his voice quiet.
"You made me want to be someone better. Even if I never get to be yours again.
" This man. This fucking cheating yet beautifully broken man still does something to me.
I breathe out slowly, feeling something crack open in my chest. "I still love you."
His head jerks up like I've slapped him.
"But I don't trust you," I continue, needing him to hear the whole truth.
He nods, swallowing hard. "I know."
"I don't know if I ever will again."
"I don't expect you to," he responds, and the resignation in his voice is new.
The old Roman would have argued, would have made promises and grand gestures.
This one just accepts the damage he's done.
"I just needed you to know I'm not the same man who destroyed us. I couldn't be. Not after losing you."
The food comes—pasta for me, steak for him—but neither of us touches it. We're too busy navigating this minefield of honesty we've stumbled into.
"What made you change?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
He looks at me for a long time, like he's deciding how much truth he can stand to reveal. "Poppy. You. Me, on the floor of our kitchen, crying like a fucking child while you walked away with our daughter, and I realized I'd just lost everything that mattered."
The silence that follows is different. A slow burn spreads behind my ribs.
"I hated you," I whisper, the admission torn from somewhere deep, my words slipping out from my soul.
"I hated me too," he replies without hesitation.
We stare at one another and sit in it then. All of it.
The grief. The love that never died even when we wanted it to. The years we almost threw away because neither of us knew how to fight for what we had instead of against each other.
"You made me feel like nothing," I confess, tears suddenly stinging my eyes. "Like I was just...a placeholder while you chased your ego and whatever made you feel like a man."
He's already crying. Not trying to hide it or wipe the tears away like weakness.
Just letting them fall. "I was stupid," he says, his voice breaking.
"I convinced myself I was bored. Bored of us , Ava; you know that’s not possible.
So I fucked it up. Sabotaged it before you could leave me.
Like my father did. Like I promised myself I'd never do. "
I blink, my own tears spilling over now, hot against my cheeks. "I wanted to destroy you," I admit, the words poison I need to spit out. "After I found out. I wanted you to feel what I felt. I wanted you to hurt the way you hurt me."
"You did." He swallows hard, his hands clenched on the table. "Every fucking day since I lost you."
I don't know who moves first. He pays the bill, but then we're both on our feet, walking out of the restaurant like we're possessed, hands brushing but not quite touching, both of us trembling with something that feels bigger than either of us can contain.
In the parking lot, under the same stars that watched us fall in love ten years ago, he turns to me.
"I still dream about you," he says, his voice raw. "Every damn night."
I can't speak—I just reach for him.
The kiss is rough. Desperate. Teeth and tongues clashing, months of grief and longing pouring out in a single breath.
His hands are on my waist, my thighs, gripping like he's afraid I'll vanish if he loosens his hold.
"Fuck, Ava," he growls against my mouth. "You're it for me. You've always been it."
We barely make it into the backseat of his car before I'm straddling him, his hands under my dress, my nails dragging down his chest through his shirt.
“And this fucking dress .”
I laugh against him as he kisses me again.
“On my fucking wife .”
“Roman…” I moan as his fingers tug at his zipper, my body flooding with need and desire for him. He positions himself against me, our eyes locking before I sink onto his cock, taking every inch of my husband like I never thought I would again.
“Fuck, Ava…” He stares at me like I’m a mirage in the desert, and I’ve never felt so desired.
The sight of him drinking me in with his eyes, greedily, as if he’s memorizing this moment, his dark hair falling into his eyes, his hips thrusting to meet mine…
He fucks me like he's claiming land.
I ride him like I'm burning it down.
Every gasp, every thrust, every whispered I'm sorry and I still love you eases the gaping wound in our souls, both of us fucking like we’d just met.
“Please be mine,” he whispers as I lose control, throwing my head forward and feeling him tightening his grip on my waist. “Because I love you so fucking much.”
I can’t respond at first, and when I can, I choose not to. Instead, I kiss him, my lips slamming against his as I drag him to me.
Because honestly, I want him to be mine too. Only mine.
With his forehead pressed against mine, he whispers it again. "I'll never stop fighting for us."
And for the first time in a long time…
I think I might believe him.