Chapter 4
Fracture
Caitlin
She didn’t know how long she’d lain there, tears soaking the floor, before she finally pulled herself upright. Step by step, she climbed the back stairs to the primary suite—the room where she and Jason had made love just days ago.
It felt like grief, as though someone had died.
How? Why? Please, God, why?
The hallway pictures watched her as she passed—smiling vacations, champagne toasts, a selfie on the Cape with wind in their hair.
Proof of a life she’d believed in. Of a man she’d trusted.
The frames felt crooked even though they were straight, mocking her with the illusion of perfection.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, sharp in the silence. A Venmo charge flashed across the display—Jason had paid for dinner.
The number was obscene for a weeknight.
Nausea surged as her imagination filled in the blanks: a pricey cut of steak, oysters, a bottle with a wax seal, and a waiter who presented it like a crown. Jason always loved to show off—especially with an audience.
She drew a bath in the soaker tub, pouring in luxury oil and watching the water swirl. The scent—amber and vanilla—rose warm and sweet, a smell she used to associate with comfort, with slow Sunday mornings and his hands on her back.
Stripping off her clothes, she lowered herself into the heat, the silky foam cradling her.
When she emerged, she patted her skin dry with one of the soft white towels he’d bought in bulk—because only the best—pulled on her elegant white silk nightgown, and settled in to wait.
Her mind spun circles in the dim light of the bedroom, eyes fixed on the door.
Should I confront him? Pretend I don’t know? Did I really see what I think I saw?
The questions knotted tighter and tighter.
She replayed the moment again and again—Jason at Mizuna, the blonde in that stunning black dress, his hand on her shoulder, the kiss.
Her gaze snagged on the dress hanging from the closet door—the navy one he said made her eyes look like ocean glass.
He’d twirled her in that dress at his firm’s gala, their laughter ridiculous and young in a room full of careful smiles.
He loves me.
The thought rose like a reflex—and then collapsed under its own weight.
She scrolled up to his last text: Sorry, honey. Working late. Big closing tomorrow. Don’t wait up.
The lie glowed cold from the screen.
Three agonizing hours later, the silence was broken.
“Person detected at Garage Bay One.”
The words struck her like electricity.
Jason was home.
A roar filled her ears as the garage rumbled shut. Then came the steady thud of his footsteps climbing the stairs.
From where she sat, she could see the narrow strip of light stretching down the hallway.
Jason appeared at the landing, jacket folded over one arm, phone in his hand.
He paused halfway down the corridor and reached out to adjust the frames on the wall—one, then another—until each hung perfectly straight. Even now, he needed the house in order.
He slipped the phone into his pocket, exhaled once, and smoothed his cuff links before stepping toward the bedroom. The calm in every movement was worse than shouting.
She could smell his cologne before she saw him—cedar and something darker, the kind that clung to suit jackets and pillowcases. Tonight, it made her sick.
He entered the room, shirt half unbuttoned, hair mussed, tie gone.
He froze when he saw her sitting up.
“Caitlin?” His voice softened, as if concerned. “Why are you awake? Are you sick?”
She stared at him, fury and hurt colliding. I saw you, Jason. I saw you.
His brows knit. “Saw me where?”
“At Mizuna—with your girlfriend.”
He gave a short laugh, stepping closer, voice warm and practiced. “Come on, baby, don’t be ridiculous. That was a client. She’s an investor. We had to meet.”
A client? You kissed her.
Jason shook his head, tone smoothing like melted butter. “You’re imagining things. You always read too much into stuff. I love you, Caitlin. You know that.”
He reached out like he might touch her shoulder—the same gesture that used to steady her. She flinched before he made contact.
Tears burned, but she met his eyes anyway.
“Overreacting? Really? You were out with another woman at our favorite place—and our neighbors, Mike and Sherry Banks, were sitting at the bar. They were looking right at you. Do you have any idea how humiliated I am right now?”
Jason froze. His eyes darkened. “You’re embarrassed by me?”
The slap came before she even realized his hand had moved.
The crack of it echoed through the room.
Her head whipped sideways; the sting burned across her cheek as she stumbled to the floor.
The taste of metal flooded her mouth.
“Oh my God…”
She gasped, clutching her face, trying to push herself up. You’re a monster.
Jason’s eyes gleamed, black and sharp.
He leaned down, voice low and cold. “I don’t know when you thought you were in charge of this relationship, but let me assure you—you’re not.”
His fist clamped in her hair, yanking her hard across the floor.
White-hot pain shot through her scalp; tears sprang to her eyes.
“Jason, stop! You’re hurting me!” she cried, clawing at his hand. “Please stop!”
He didn’t.
The man she knew—the one who made her coffee just the way she liked it—was gone.
Her anger flared through the terror. “I want a divorce!” she screamed, her voice raw and shaking.
Jason froze for half a beat. Then his face twisted.
“Divorce? You want to divorce me? Try it—and see what it costs you.”
He lunged, straddling her, his hand clamping around her neck.
The room smelled of amber and vanilla—sweet and wrong—the same bath oil she’d poured into the water hours earlier.
She gasped, clawing at his wrists, desperate for air.
His weight pressed her down, squeezing, squeezing.
Spots burst at the edges of her vision.
He’s going to kill me. Right here. Right now.
She grabbed at anything she could reach—the sheet, his sleeve, skin.
Her nails raked across his wrist; he hissed and tightened his grip.
The shock that the man she thought loved her was going to kill her hit harder than the pain itself.
The man she had once loved stared down at her with dead eyes.
Everything went dark.