Liam
The mug between his palms had gone cold, whatever heat it held long gone. He sat at the kitchen table, staring at the pale streaks of morning light slanting through the blinds.
He’d slipped into bed beside Emma late last night, lying stiff next to her, listening to her breathe—the steady rise and fall of her chest that used to mean home. He hadn’t touched her and she hadn’t turned; their silence louder than any fight. He’d stared at the ceiling until dawn, dreading what the morning would bring.
The nanny had taken Nora out for a walk not long ago. He’d asked for some privacy, offering no explanation beyond needing time with Emma.
He heard her coming down the stairs, each step soft and unhurried. She came into the kitchen in her robe, her hair damp from a quick shower and her skin bare of makeup. He hated himself for not loving her the way she deserved. She paused when she saw him sitting there, her hand tightening on the belt of her robe.
Liam lifted his gaze, his voice rough when he spoke. "It’s time we had that talk."
She crossed to the counter, poured herself a coffee, and sat opposite him. Silence stretched long enough that his chest hurtwith it. When she finally spoke, her voice was smaller than he expected. “So this is the part where you say it’s over?”
His heart clenched hard.God. She already knows. “Emma…”
She gave a laugh that broke halfway, jagged around the edges. “Don’t lie, Liam. I’ve known for a while something’s been wrong. I just didn’t know when you’d finally admit it.”
“I didn’t want to hurt you.”
Her voice cracked. “You are hurting me. You’ve been hurting me for months. With every cold shoulder and half-answer. Every night you got into bed and felt like a stranger.”
He looked down in shame. “I tried. I really did.”
Her eyes glossed. “But you’re not in this anymore. Are you?”
He shook his head. “No. I’m so sorry, Emma.”
Her gaze dropped to her coffee, knuckles white around the mug. Her next words were barely audible. “Is there someone else?”
“Yes,” he said, guilt curling hot in his chest. The lying was over.
Emma turned her head, blinking fast. Her mouth trembled, lips pressed hard like she was holding something back. “Who is it?”
His chest constricted. He wanted to protect her, even now, but she would find out eventually. “Emma—”
“Just tell me,” she whispered.
He didn’t try to spin it or soften the blow. “Jacob.”
Her head jerked, like the name landed physically. For a second, she just stared at him, then she let out a shocked laugh—not amused, just incredulous. “Of course. God. Of course. I’m so stupid.”
“You’re not stupid,” he said immediately, hating the way the word had passed her lips. Hating that he had put it there at all.
Her voice broke on the next question. “How long?”
He dragged a hand down his face. “It started while we were filming. I ended it three months ago, when Nora was born. I thought I could cut it off—”
"But you couldn’t."
"No."
She nodded sharply, before pushing to her feet like she couldn’t stand to be near him another second. She crossed to the far side of the kitchen, arms locked around herself.
"You started filming over eight months ago. You’ve been lying to me all this time?"
"I’m so sorry, Emma. I swear I didn’t want to hurt you."
"That doesn’t make it better. You tore everything apart, and I’m the one who has to live with it."
