CHAPTER 19
Elena
I looked down at Haille’s sleeping face before stepping out of her room and gently pulling the door closed behind me. Then I walked back to my bedroom, just down the hall from hers.
When I pushed the door open, it felt emptier than usual. There was no trace of Adrian anywhere. I went into the bathroom and turned on the water, deciding to soak for a while—just to enjoy the quiet, the rare luxury of being alone.
I slid into the bathtub with my phone in hand, scrolling through the photos from my company event that a coworker had sent. There were so many snapshots of me and Haille. I smiled at her bright little grin, even though she’d been exhausted, she looked so happy.
Then I swiped through the rest—pictures of Haille in Harley’s arms, group photos, moments I hadn’t noticed before. I saved every picture that had her in it—whether it was of just the two of us, or others too.
After that, I set my phone aside and let myself sink beneath the water.
For a moment, everything was quiet. The world muted.
My heartbeat loud in my ears. I held my breath just long enough to feel that familiar burn in my lungs—sharp, brief, and punishing—before breaking the surface again and gasping for air.
The pain faded quickly, but the echo of it stayed. It wasn’t about drowning. It was about how strange it felt that this ache, this tightening, breathless kind of hurt, was so familiar, so much like the wounds Adrian left behind. The kind of pain I could still live with.
I wouldn’t lie if love was the only thing keeping me here. It wasn’t forgiveness, not peace, or hope. Just love, the very thing that also made the resentment sharper and the wounds deeper.
I wanted him to feel the weight of what he took from me. And yet I couldn’t walk away. I didn’t hate him enough to leave, I loved him just enough to stay. And that love was anchoring me in a marriage that felt both broken and impossible to let go of.
After I finished getting ready and settled onto the bed, I lay on my back, scrolling absentmindedly through my phone—checking messages, rereading a few texts from coworkers, looking at the photos from the event—anything to fill the quiet.
I wasn’t expecting anything more than that silence until Adrian suddenly video-called me.
His face appeared on the screen, brown hair slightly tousled, the collar of his shirt loosened.
He was clearly already in his hotel room—plain white sheets stretched neatly behind him, and a lamp cast warm light over his shoulders, softening the sharpness of his features.
Even through the screen, he still had that look—the kind that could undo me if I ever let it.
“Hey,” he said, voice low but soft.
“Hey,” I replied.
“How was the event?”
“It was fun. Haille really enjoyed it. She played a lot and ate a lot too.”
He smiled faintly, the kind of smile that lingered just a little too long. “And you?”
“It was fine. I’m tired, but... yeah.” I replied, purposely keeping it neutral.
He nodded slowly. “What are you doing now?”
“I was looking through the photos they sent. I’m about to sleep.” I lied, forcing a small yawn to make it believable.
“Oh.” His gaze dipped for a second, almost disappointed. “Send them to me, okay? I want to see too.”
“Sure. I’ll hang up now.”
He leaned forward a little, like he wasn’t ready to let the moment end just yet.
“Elena?” he said quickly, before I could press the button.
“I miss you.”
I paused, just long enough to feel it, but not long enough to show it.
“I know,” I answered quietly.
His eyes softened. “You should rest,” he murmured, even though he clearly wanted to keep talking. “Call me tomorrow?”
“Maybe,” I said, already pulling away from the moment.
He exhaled, the sound weighted. “Goodnight, love.”
“Goodnight.”
I ended the call before he could say anything else. The screen went dark, and the room settled into silence again. I waited for the ache to hit me, but nothing came. And somehow, that hurt even more.
I rested my phone on the mattress and stared up at the ceiling, feeling the weight of that hollow space inside me.
Sometimes I wondered if I was the only one still bleeding from something that happened years ago.
Adrian had... adapted. He’d swallowed the guilt, gone to therapy, rebuilt routines, and found a way to keep moving forward.
I wasn’t proud of it. God, sometimes I wished I could hurt less. I wished I could forget. I wished I could breathe without feeling like I was always one heartbeat away from drowning again.
I wanted to be where he was, on the other side of this. But I was still here, stuck on the edge, unable to cross. Not because I didn’t want to, but because the wound was mine, not his.
Healing wasn’t something I could force. I couldn’t sprint through the pain just because he was ready to be forgiven. And sometimes, the cruelest part was realizing that the person who breaks you learns to move on faster than the one left to live with the cracks.
— ? —
Adrian
I missed her. God, I missed her more than I ever thought a person could miss someone and still function normally.
Sometimes the ache was so sharp it felt borderline insanity.
And what I missed wasn’t just the presence of a wife or a partner—it was her, the version of her that used to be mine without hesitation.
The Elena who could be intimidatingly smart yet still laugh softly at her own jokes; the woman who looked composed on the outside but lit up in conversation, who was kind without even realizing it, who loved openly, wholly, fearlessly.
My Elena. The one I broke, and the one I’d been trying to get back ever since.
After we ended the video call, I tried to settle into the numb routine I’d perfected over the last two years. I showered, rinsing away the heat and dust of the construction site; the day had been long and exhausting, and the water felt like a relief I hadn’t realized I needed.
I changed into a black T-shirt and boxer briefs, planning to collapse onto the mattress and let sleep drag me under before guilt or memory could do any more damage. But the moment I picked up my phone and saw the photos Elena had sent, any trace of exhaustion evaporated.
The first few pictures made me smile despite myself. Haille on the slide, her cheeks flushed with excitement. Her little hands grabbing food. That butterfly face paint smudged at the corners. She looked so damn happy, and for a moment it eased something tight in my chest.
Then I swiped again.
And everything inside me froze.
Because suddenly, in the next photo, she wasn’t in Elena’s arms. She was in his—Elena’s junior.
I shifted upright instinctively, spine snapping straight against the headboard as if sitting up could anchor the surge of adrenaline hitting my chest. The exhaustion in my muscles vanished. My pulse sharpened.
Back then, he was nothing more than Elena’s junior. Someone I never paid attention to. Someone harmless. But right now? Right now, seeing my daughter asleep in his arms while Elena stood beside him, something inside me shifted.
I didn’t like the way it looked. I didn’t like the familiarity of the moment. I didn’t like how natural it seemed, as if he belonged there.
It wasn’t because I’d always been suspicious, it was because I hadn’t been. I had never looked twice at him, never cared, never imagined him anywhere near the center of my life.
But this photo forced me to see it differently, and suddenly the idea of another man holding my daughter while standing beside my wife ignited a territorial anger I didn’t even know I was capable of feeling.
My hand tightened around the phone until my knuckles went white. I swiped again, slower this time, as if bracing for impact.
The next photo was worse. There were other people in it, but I barely noticed them.
All I saw was him holding my daughter with ease, Haille asleep against his chest, and Elena beside him—smiling like the moment meant something.
And the worst part was that his eyes weren’t on the camera.
They were on her. Far too familiar for a man who was supposed to be nothing more than a coworker.
A cold, controlled fury crawled up my spine. It wasn’t the kind that exploded. It was quieter. Tighter. A slow, low burn that made every muscle in my body coil with instinct. Territorial. Protective. Primitive.
Why the hell was my daughter in another man’s arms? Why did my wife let him hold our child? And why did he look at what belongs to me like that?
I wanted to call her. God, I wanted to call her right then and demand an explanation. I wanted to hear her voice and try to understand how that photo—those moments—had existed. I wanted to go home tonight, ignore the project, and be at my door before sunrise.
Because the sight of another man holding my daughter while standing beside my wife ignited something vicious and territorial inside me.
It wasn’t just jealousy, it was the realization that he wanted something that was mine.