12. I had never even noticed
Adrian’s Pov:
I stood there in silence after Sophia’s words.
The hallway suddenly felt unbearably narrow.
She stared at me, her eyes blazing with anger.
Then she asked, her voice cold and sharp,
“Were you with Vanessa?”
For a moment, I said nothing.
Then I gave a small nod.
The moment I admitted it, something in her expression changed.
Her eyes filled with tears, but her anger held them back.
Then a bitter laugh escaped her lips.
“Of course,” she said mockingly. “You must have had a wonderful makeout session. ”
I frowned
“Sophia—”
But she cut me off immediately.
“What, Sophia?” she snapped.
Her voice rose as she stepped toward me.
“What exactly are you going to say?”
Before I could answer, she grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward our bedroom.
“Sophia—”
“Come here.”
She dragged me in front of the mirror and forced me to look.
I froze.
Only then did I truly notice my reflection.
I had left Vanessa’s apartment in a rush.
I hadn’t looked at myself once.
There were marks on my neck.
Lipstick stains near my mouth.
Smudges across my skin.
The evidence of where I had been was impossible to miss.
For the first time, I felt something I hadn’t expected.
Shame.
Sophia stood beside me and said coldly,
“This is how you were going to stand in front of Lily?”
I said nothing.
She gave a bitter laugh.
Then she looked at me through the mirror.
“You two must be celebrating, right?” she said mockingly. “Celebrating that I finally left.”
My throat tightened.
I didn’t know what to say.
But somehow the words came out.
“What about you?” I said quietly. “Weren’t you celebrating too?”
Her outfit screamed that she was celebrating too afterall.
The moment the words left my mouth, I knew they were wrong.
Her expression cracked.
Her voice shook, but she didn’t back down.
“I was celebrating, yes.”
She let out a humorless laugh.
“But I wasn’t so lost in my celebration that I forgot my daughter, Mr. Whitmore.”
The words hit me hard.
I had no defense.
She stepped closer, her voice trembling with anger.
“And why shouldn’t I celebrate?”
She pointed at me, at my disheveled state.
“Why shouldn’t I celebrate leaving a marriage where my husband comes home looking like this every single night?”
I stared at her.
She kept going, years of pain pouring out.
“Why shouldn’t I celebrate leaving a man who never even cared enough to hide the lipstick stains from his mistress?”
My chest tightened.
I had never thought about it that way.
Never thought about what she saw when I came home.
Never thought about what she felt.
Sophia’s voice cracked.
“Every night you came home smelling like her.”
I swallowed hard.
“And now,” she whispered, “even Lily smells like her.”
She looked away, as if the memory itself hurt.
“That perfume...” she said softly. “That cherry perfume became suffocating to me.”
Her eyes met mine again.
“Do you know what it feels like to smell another woman on your husband every night?”
I couldn’t answer.
Because I didn’t know.
I had never imagined what those nights had been like for her.
Her voice rose again, desperate and broken.
“Why shouldn’t I celebrate, Adrian?”
Tears finally spilled down her cheeks.
“Please tell me—why shouldn’t I?”
And then her strength gave out.
She broke down.
She sank to the floor, sobbing.
The anger was gone.
Now there was only pain.
Raw, unbearable pain.
I stood there frozen.
I didn’t know what to do.
I didn’t know what to say.
Because for the first time—
I saw it.
Not just that she was hurt.
But how deeply I had hurt her.
I had never realized the weight she carried.
Never understood what my actions looked like through her eyes.
And now, watching her cry on the floor in front of me—
I felt something I had never truly felt before.
Guilt.
Real guilt.
It crushed my chest so heavily I could barely breathe.
Because suddenly I understood—
while I had been living carelessly,
Sophia had been suffering quietly every single day.
And the worst part was—
I had never even noticed.