Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
DEVON
I’m at work. It feels more like my home than our house does now.
Our house—Jade.
It’s been two weeks since we started therapy. Two weeks of hard conversations and silences and sleeping in the same bed again but not touching. Two weeks of trying to prove I'm the man Jade married, not the one who broke her.
I stop halfway down the staff corridor, staring at the scheduling board in disbelief.
I can’t believe what I’m seeing—is this some kind of sick joke? I feel like every time Jade and I take one step forward, we fall ten steps back.
My fists clench and my teeth grit together.
I stare at the words until they blur.
Studio 2 — Mila Harris — Hot Vinyasa Yoga
I feel sick.
No. No fucking way. Mila? HERE?
I pull out my phone, checking my blocked contacts. She's still there—her number, grayed out and inaccessible. I blocked her the night Jade left. I was so sure it was over.
"Hey, Locke." Ray waves at me from the weight floor. "You good? You look like you've seen a ghost."
I know he’s a client, but my face feels numb, like I can’t move it into an appropriate expression to support my lie. Somehow, I say; “All good. Just tired."
More fucking lies. I’m getting good at this.
I spend my morning sessions distracted, correcting form on autopilot while my mind races through possibilities.
Mila rented studio space here. At my gym.
The gym where I've worked for three years, where my clients know me, and my reputation matters.
This isn't a coincidence.
By lunch, I'm furious.
Who does Mila think she is? She’s crazy. What other explanation is there for doing this?
First, she texted me. Then Jade—now this?
I grab my protein shake and head for the back exit, desperate for fresh air.
The door swings open before I reach it, and there she is.
Mila looks polished and composed, her yoga mat tucked under one arm like she has every right to be here, invading my professional space. Her green eyes find mine immediately, like she knew I'd be here. Like she planned it.
I honestly wouldn’t put it past her.
"Devon." She smiles, and it makes my skin crawl. "I was hoping I'd run into you."
Run into me? So, she knows I work here. That’s why she’s here. The coffee I drank earlier threatens to climb up my throat.
"What are you doing here, Mila?”
"Teaching yoga." She gestures at the studio hallway behind her. "The owner loved my credentials.”
She gives me a smug smile.
I don’t care about her fucking credentials.
"You know what I mean."
Her smile doesn't waver. "I moved back to LA."
She mentioned L.A., but here?! In my gym?
Fucking wonderful.
"You need to leave."
"I have a contract, Devon, for six months." She steps closer, and I step back. "Blocking me was dramatic, by the way. We're adults. We should be able to have a conversation."
"There's nothing to talk about."
"Isn't there?" Her voice is sickly sweet. "Because I've been thinking about that night. A lot, actually. And I'm not sure you remember it the same way I do."
My blood goes cold. "Nothing happened besides a silly fucking kiss, which meant nothing.”
"You keep saying that." She tilts her head, studying me like I'm a puzzle she's already solved. "But you were so drunk, Devon. How can you be sure?"
"I'm sure." My jaw clenches so hard that it aches.
"Are you?" She moves closer again, and I can smell her perfume—the same one from that hotel room, both sweet and suffocating. "Because your wife might have questions. About what really happened after you followed me upstairs."
The threat lands exactly where she meant it to.
"I didn't follow you. I walked you to your room because you couldn't stand—you asked me to!”
"Such a gentleman." Her smile makes me want to vomit. "But that's not what I remember. I remember you wanting to come inside. I remember you kissing me like you meant it."
“Bullshit!” I hiss. “I stopped it, and you know it.”
"Did you?" She's so close now I can see the flecks of gold in her irises. “That’s not what happened, Devon.”
My hands are shaking. I shove them in my pockets so she can't see.
"You're lying, and I know what happened.”
"Am I?" She reaches up, her fingers brushing my chest, and I have to resist the urge to smack her hand away.
“Don’t touch me!” I shove past her, and she laughs, like it’s funny to her.
“Tell Jade I said, hey!”
Then she's gone, disappearing down the hallway toward the studios, and I'm left with my back against the wall and my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.
The rest of my shift passes without me noticing.
I correct form and count reps. I smile at clients and pretend my entire life isn't crumbling around me.
Jade and I have therapy tomorrow afternoon. We've been making progress—small progress, but I’d take anything at this point.
I keep hearing Mila’s voice in my head. You were so drunk. How can you be sure?
I am sure. I remember the kiss—the guilt and the wrongness of it—and I remember pulling away. I remember telling her that it was a mistake. Nothing after that until Jade's face on my phone screen, pale and horrified.
I didn’t fuck her. No way. But for some sick reason, Mila wants me to think I did.
To anyone else, Mila seems so certain. So calm about it, like she's stating facts instead of planting doubts—why?
I was hammered that night—more drunk than I've ever been—and even though Mila's words keep ringing in my mind; I know nothing happened.
How can you be sure?
By the time I'm locking up, my hands won't stop trembling. I check my phone obsessively, trying to ignore my gut instinct telling me she’s going to contact me. But she can’t—I blocked her.
Then it comes.
UNKNOWN: You know you liked it, Dev.
I stare at the screen until it goes dark. How many fucking burner phones does she have?!
She won’t stop until she gets what she wants—whatever that is. My attention? Power? The satisfaction of wrecking my marriage?
Why is she doing this to us?
I should tell Jade; I know I should. But how do I explain that the woman I kissed is now working at my gym, cornering me in hallways, implying things happened that I can't prove didn't?
Jade's finally starting to trust me again. I can see it in the way she reaches for my hand sometimes, then stops. The way she looked at me in therapy yesterday—wounded but open, like she's trying.
If I tell her about Mila, that trust shatters.
But if I don't tell her, and she finds out some other way...
I'm fucked either way.
I drive home in silence, no music, no podcasts, nothing but the sound of my breathing.
Jade's car is in the driveway when I pull up, meaning she's home, waiting for me.
I sit in the car for a long time, staring at the lights in our kitchen window, knowing I should go inside and tell her everything.
But I don't.
Because I'm still the coward I've always been, and I never learn my fucking lesson.