CHAPTER 1
Adrian
She was supposed to be nothing, just a part of my past that resurfaced unexpectedly. Our brief encounter at the reunion, I thought it ended there.
It was during our college reunion. I had stepped away for a moment, taking a seat in the corner to make a quick call before heading back to the others. Just a few minutes. That was all I intended. Somewhere in between, Phoebe had taken the seat across from me.
She stirred her tea slowly, eyes unfocused, like she was watching something far older than the table between us. “You know,” she said, trying to sound casual, “you were really different back in college.”
I glanced up at her. “How so?”
She tilted her head slightly, studying me. “I used to think you were… distant.”
I let out a quiet breath. “Did I?”
A faint smile touched her lips. “We never talked like this.” She paused, her fingers lightly circling the rim of her cup before continuing, “Especially not with me. You kept your distance. Not in an obvious way, but enough that it didn’t go unnoticed.”
I leaned back in my chair, my gaze steady. “William,” I said after a moment. “I was just doing what I was supposed to.”
“I know.” She nodded, still stirring her drink. “And you—” she added, quieter now, “—you never crossed a line.”
Her words lingered longer than they should have.
Then she looked up at me, the light catching her eyes just enough to reveal the muted green beneath the brown. “I thought you were just being polite,” she went on. “But now… I think you were being careful. Like you’d already decided not to want something.”
For a moment, I didn’t respond.
Instead, I looked away, my attention drifting toward the others across the room.
“Will was my friend,” I said finally, my tone even. “He liked you.”
“And you?” she asked, toying with a strand of her dark, softly tousled hair, the gesture casual, but her eyes anything but.
I held her gaze for a second, just long enough to acknowledge the question.
Then I looked away. “That was a long time ago,” I said. “It doesn’t matter now.”
It wasn’t an answer. It was meant to end the conversation.
It didn’t.
“And William… that was before Astrid,” she said. Something in the way she said it made the air shift, subtle but unmistakable.
She smiled, faint and nostalgic, almost dangerous. “Sometimes I wonder,” she added, letting the words linger between us, “what would’ve happened if things had been different back then.”
I leaned back, folding my arms loosely, more out of habit than comfort. “Different how?”
Her smile softened, but her eyes didn’t. “Just imagine it. If either of us had—” She trailed off, exhaling lightly. “We’d probably be—”
She didn’t finish, and I didn’t help her. I knew what she meant; it didn’t take much to figure it out. Instead, I reached for my coffee, taking a slow sip, because finishing that sentence would’ve meant acknowledging something I had no intention of touching.
— ? —
A month after the reunion, she reached out again.
Small messages at first, harmless questions, little memories she suddenly remembered. And although I was careful, although a part of me wanted to keep my distance, another part of me didn’t.
Talking to her felt effortless, almost nostalgic, like slipping back into a version of myself I hadn’t been in years. It reminded me of simpler times: college hallways, late-night basketball games, deadlines that didn’t crush me the way dozens of massive projects do now.
Phoebe lived out of town and had never attended any of our reunions before, the last reunion had been her first time joining. After the reunion, I never saw her again in person. But even if she had lived in the same city, I wouldn’t have gone out of my way to meet her.
My job kept me moving from city to city, living out of suitcases and temporary hotel rooms. And whenever I was home, of course I chose to spend my time with my wife and family rather than anyone else.
But then one day, Phoebe came to Michigan. She asked if I could meet her because there was something important she needed to talk about, something she couldn’t discuss over a call or through chat.
At the café, she looked smaller than I remembered.
She told me about her divorce, the debts, and her children, about how she barely got to see them anymore.
Then came the part she said quietly, almost as if she were afraid the words might break her again, about the years of hidden bruises she covered with makeup and the violence she endured inside a marriage no one knew was falling apart.
“I know this is a lot, Adrian. I know you don’t owe me anything. But I need help. Just until I can stand again.” She hesitated before adding, “Six months. I’ll pay you back, I promise.”
I took a breath, weighing the past against the life I had now.
“Okay,” I said finally. “I’ll help. Until you get back on your feet.”
Her shoulders eased, and her eyes softened as she whispered, “Thank you. I won’t forget this.”
I told myself it was nothing. Just a good deed. A small kindness. Nothing more.
And after our last meeting, I thought that was it.
But she kept slipping back into my life, little by little.
At first, it was harmless, just casual conversations between old friends.
Then the messages grew warmer, lighter, a little too playful.
Before long, it felt like we were maintaining some kind of long-distance something.
Not a relationship, but not just friendship either.
Something in the gray, something I should’ve shut down before it became a crack in the life I’d built.
And maybe that was the problem. The thrill I felt around Phoebe wasn’t desire. It was a fleeting rush, a pathetic echo of youth, the ego-boost of being wanted the way I once was in college. A nostalgia for a version of myself I should’ve outgrown.
But what happened at the hotel... that was never something I planned.
I was out of town for a project inspection, and by coincidence, the site was in the same city where Phoebe lived. She dropped by my hotel that evening, asking if we could grab dinner.
We walked together, looking for a restaurant near the hotel. After dinner, we ended up at a bar. We drank more than we should have, the kind of drinking that blurs judgment and weakens resolve.
Alcohol fogged my thoughts, and loneliness has a way of whispering lies in your ear.
I remember the softness of her lips when she kissed me outside the bar, and the brief second I pulled back.
I remember the way my back hit the wall of my hotel room.
Her fingers tugging at my shirt. And then nothing but blurred heat—a mistake, a moment of weakness, and the single decision I would spend years regretting.
The next morning, I woke to the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears. Phoebe was naked beside me.
“Fuck.” The word scraped out of me like gravel.
I lurched off the bed, nearly tripping as I grabbed my pants.
“What the hell—Phoebe, what did we—fuck!”
She sat up, clutching the sheet. “Adrian, calm down.”
“Calm down?” I snapped. “I’m married—Elena, God—what have I done?”
I pressed both hands into my hair, pulling. My pulse hammered so hard I felt it in my teeth.
Phoebe watched me quietly, then said, “It doesn’t have to ruin your life.”
“This is ruining my life!” I snapped.
She flinched but continued, “Just... help me finish paying it off. That’s all I need. I won’t tell anyone.”
I stared at her, nausea rising so fast I had to brace myself against the wall just to stay upright. “Phoebe, this can’t happen again,” I whispered. “Ever.”
“I know.”
“I mean it. Last night—last night was a mistake.”
“Okay,” she said gently. “Then let’s pretend it never happened.”
Pretend.
As if something like that could simply be undone.
God, if only I could.
After Boston, I limited my contact with her, keeping everything strictly related to the debt.
There was a promissory note between us, and that was the only reason I continued sending her money. I made sure everything was documented, keeping every message and every transfer as proof of the arrangement.
But I began to notice things that didn’t add up. The numbers she’d given me—the debts she claimed she was trying to clear—didn’t match what I was actually sending. The six months we’d agreed on, it should have been enough.
Somehow it wasn’t.
Every time I transferred the money, it barely settled before another message came in—another request, another story. It became less about the debt and more about making sure I wouldn’t say no.
She would start bringing up what had happened between us—whatever it was she kept trying to turn into something more—especially that night when I crossed the line.
That was when I decided I needed to pull away completely. I wasn’t going to send her anything beyond what we had originally agreed on.
And I was going to tell Elena everything. I would face her, beg for forgiveness, or do whatever it took. Because no matter how badly I had failed her, I knew I couldn’t lose her. Elena was the one thing I refused to let slip away.
I chose to wait until after she gave birth.
I didn’t want to burden her, or risk stressing her when she was so close to the end of her pregnancy.
I told myself I was protecting her, but the truth was I was scared.
Scared of hurting her, scared of what she would see when she looked at me, and scared of losing the life we had built.
But the truth didn’t wait. It didn’t stay buried.
In the end, Elena found out first because of my own stupidity, leaving those messages where she could find them.