He’s focused, absorbed in whatever report or email he’s typing up, his brow furrowed in concentration. I wonder if he senses the shift between us, if he can feel the chasm growing wider, the silence between us thickening with unspoken grievances. Or is he truly oblivious?
He has no idea that he isn’t the last man I kissed. The last man to see me naked. The last man inside me. The thought sits like a cold, heavy stone in my gut.
I have the television on, the screen flickering with chaotic scenes from some show I can’t even remember the name of. Distant gunfire, dramatic music. But I can’t pay attention to it. The characters move across the screen, saying words I barely register. My mind is elsewhere.
I’ve never cheated on Shephard before. I’ve never even had the urge. For years, our marriage felt solid, built on a foundation of shared history, quiet companionship, and a love that, while perhaps not fiery, felt steady and true. We’ve had our ups and downs, of course. The usual ebb and flow of any long-term relationship. Money stresses, parenting disagreements, the natural drift of routine. But I never,everthought I’d be the type to have an affair, to cross that line. It’s the kind of thing that happens to other people, in other relationships. Not mine. I thought I was better than that, stronger, more grounded. But here I am, sinking under the devastating consequences of my own choices, choices I never imagined I’d make, never dreamed I was capable of.
And it was so easy.Tooeasy. I barely thought of him, of Shephard, in those moments. It was like when Saint was around, when his intensity filled the space, Shephard was out of sight, out of mind.Why?Why was it so simple to betray the man I vowed to cherish? The man sitting just inches from me, oblivious.
“Are you even listening?” Shephard’s voice, sharper than I expected, slices through my thoughts. He’s looking at me now, his laptop half closed on his knees, a flicker of irritation in his eyes.
“What?” I force my gaze from the flickering screen to his face. “Sorry. Just ... tired.” The lie is instant, automatic.
He sighs, a small, weary sound. “I was just saying, I finally got our expense report done, but I want to make sure I have every bill listed before I meet with the accountant. So if you’re feeling up to it, maybe you could look over some of it before me and the girls head out in the morning?” His tone is carefully neutral, but I catch the subtle dip in his voice on “if you’re feeling up to it,” a barbed wire wrapped in concern.
A familiar resentment prickles. His moods seem to ebb and flow with the fluctuations of my career. When my books were flying off shelves, when the advances were big, he was my biggest cheerleader, and subtly, my manager, my financial advisor, taking pride inoursuccess. But now, with the backlash from my last book, with the cancel culture biting hard, with my creative well feeling dry for months ... now it’s different. The pride has curdled into something else. And he acts like he’s some martyr, saving us from my bad choices.
It’s like he wants to own my successes, but when I fail, those are all on me.
“Money trouble is the last thing I need in my brain, Shephard,” I say, my voice tighter than I intend. “That’s why I came to the cabin, to try andsolveour money issues. Going over them in detail will just make my writer’s block worse.”
He raises an eyebrow, a sardonic curve to his lips. “Right. Well, the well’s looking a little dry, Petra, and I can’t keep hoping you’ll find inspiration. Good intent doesn’t pay the bills. Producing something does.”
“For your information, I’ve written over half a book since I got here. Thanks for asking. I’ve been in a groove until ...”
Shephard sets his phone down beside him. “Untilweshowed up?”
I sigh. “I’m due to be home for Chloe’s birthday next weekend for two whole days. I don’t know why you thought it was a good idea to interrupt two more of my writing days. That means I’ll get three writing days out of the whole week, tops. It’s not enough, and I can’t just switch it on and off.”
“The girls missed you,” he says, his words sharp. “Sorry you have people who love you.” He stands up, heading toward the kitchen.
“That’s not ...” Ugh. I drop my hands to the couch on either side of me and groan. “That’s not fair. Writing is a weird beast, and you know I work best when I have stretches of solitude. I love you, and I love my girls, but it’s like you can’t even get through a week without needing me to give you a reprieve. When do I getmyreprieve?”
“How many episodes ofLove Islandhave you watched since you’ve been here? You can’t tell me you actually spend all day every day writing. I’ve been working, watching the girls, all while trying to figure out how to get our finances in order for our meeting with the accountant. Sorry if I can’t understand how a vacation in a ...” He looks around. “You can’t even call this a cabin. A vacation in adreamhome can in any way be torture. All I asked is for you to look at some numbers. My bad. I’ll do it myself.”
The jab lands, sharp and precise. It always comes back to money, to my career, to the fact that for so long, I was the primary earner. And now that I’m struggling, it’s thrown everything off balance, and he isn’t taking it well.
“Are you implying I haven’t been working?” My voice rises, a defensive heat flushing my cheeks. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to write under this kind of pressure? With all the noise?”
He leans against the counter, crossing his arms, his expression hardening. “Pressure? Petra, you get to write stories for a living. I sit in meetings all day, dealing with spreadsheets and corporate politics, trying to hang on to my job so a fresh-out-of-college kid doesn’t come in and do it for half the price. Don’t tell me about pressure. And frankly, yournoiseis partly your own making. You didn’t want to be more well known, and I tried to tell you letting them adapt one of your books was just going to make your life more stressful.”
“So now my success is the problem? I thought mylackof success was the problem.”
“No, the problem is you made a lot of money and now you’re making none. I’m happy you’re writing, but I’m a little annoyed that you’re annoyed we’re here. One day isn’t going to make or break this book. You’re being kind of a bitch.”
My jaw drops.
His immediately tightens.
He steps toward me, pulling me in for an embrace. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m just ... I’m stressed, okay?”
In all our years of marriage, he’s never once used that word at me.
“I wasn’t callingyoua bitch. Just ...God. Our financial future isn’t as secure as it was when you were churning out bestsellers every six months. All I asked was for you to look over expenses, and you’re acting like I don’t appreciate what you do for our family.” He pulls back and looks me in the eye. “I just need a little help, Petra. Frommy wife.”
The words hang in the air.My wife.The role I’m failing so spectacularly at.
He’s not wrong, not entirely. He carries a burden too. But his inability to truly understand the creative block, the emotional toll of public scrutiny, feels so unsupportive. He always wants me to be thesuccessful, unbothered author, not the messy human struggling beneath the weight of it all.
