She stared at Jake.
“This wasn’t about sex,” she whispered. “This was about you not seeing me anymore. You don’t see the woman who carried your children. Who stretches herself thin every day so you can come home to peace and warmth! You saw someone who made you feel wanted and you ran to it like a coward.”
He looked down. Guilty. Silent.
She took one last breath. It rattled. And with that, she walked out. Not crying. Not screaming. Just done. The door clicked shut behind her with a soft finality that felt louder than any scream she could’ve unleashed.
Jake stood in the silence she left behind, staring at the space where his wife had just stood where she had unraveled in front of him, not in weakness, but in fury and clarity.
He felt hollow.
His shirt was still undone, the air in the office sharp against his sweat-dampened skin. He didn’t move. The blood that had rushed to his dick earlier now thundered in his ears in a sickening rhythm.
His fingers twitched. He ran a hand over his face. “What the fuck have I done” he screamed.
Everything in the room suddenly looked obscene. The couch where he’d lost control. The lipstick smudged on his collar. The faint smell of Rachel’s perfume still hanging in the air like a stain.
It all reeked of guilt now.
He paced. Then stopped.
Then paced again.
His chest felt tight. Not from panic. From the reality settling in like cold water: Kylee was gone. And she didn’t cry. She didn’t plead. She didn’t scream. She just left. That was worse.
He grabbed the edge of his desk and leaned over it, trying to breathe through the pressure building behind his ribs. His gaze fell on the framed photo beside his tablet that fucking photoKylee holding Kayla on her hip, Jake Jr. hugging her leg, Macy mid-laugh in her arms.
His family. His entire world. He turned the frame face down. This wasn’t just about Rachel. Not anymore. This was about what he’d broken. And deep down, he knew: there was no good version of this story now. No clean confession. No neat apology.
Kylee had looked at him like she didn’t know him. Maybe he didn’t know himself either.
Lillian had taken the kids for a walk, leaving the house warm and still. Kylee didn’t move. She didn’t drop her purse. She didn’t kick off her boots. She just stood there.Like if she stayed still enough, time might rewind.
But it didn’t.
The scent of baby lotion still hung in the air, mingling with the faint trace of whatever aftershave Jake had worn this morning. She’d kissed his cheek when he left. Smiled at him. Told him good luck with his day.
Her stomach turned.
She walked into the kitchen, her footsteps light against the tile. Her eyes drifted over the half-dried sippy cups in the sink, the grocery list stuck to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a football. Jake Jr.’s cleats sat by the door a little muddy. She didn’t care, she couldn’t care.
She gripped the edge of the counter with both hands, breathing hard through her nose.
Don’t cry.
She didn’t want to cry.
Crying made it real. Crying made it stick.
But the pressure was too much. The image of Jakes dick inside of Rachel, his face frozen in shame played on repeat like a loop in her mind.
A sob slipped out. Then another. And then her whole body folded, bent under the weight of it all. She sank to the floor beside the island, her fingers pressed to her mouth to muffle the sound. Her chest heaved, her shoulders shaking as every ounce of betrayal came pouring out of her in broken, shuddering gasps.
This wasn’t supposed to be her story. She was the wife. The mother. The one who held it all together.
She had given Jake everything! Her heart. Her body. Her faith. She moved across the country, carried his children, and stayed quiet when he pulled away. And still, she wasn’t enough.
She sobbed until her voice cracked. Until the only thing left was silence. And in that silence, she realized something: this moment wasn’t just grief. It wasn’t just heartbreak.
