“I want the truth. Honestly, I want a lot of things.” She says, and I look at her for a long beat.
“What exactly do you want, Hannah?” Her eyes don’t waver. She stands her ground. “I want my husband to fuck me.” I blink. “What?”
“I want you. I want to feel something again. I want to stop wondering if I ever mattered. I want to know if there’s anything left here, between us.” My chest tightens. “I also wanna know if there’s something here, but we can’t do this.”
“Why? Because you’re fucking her?” I flinch, and she sees it. Fuck. I didn’t want her to find out about it this way. “Can we talk about this —about all of this, later? When we’re both sober.”
Her face shifts. “No, we’re talking about it right now. You used to look at me like I was it for you. Like I was home. I haven’t felt that in a long time.” I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t want her to feel like this. She is still my wife, the mother of my kids. And I don’t even know what’s going to happen after this month ends. What if Olivia says she wants nothing more to do with me? What if Hannah still wants me? Fuck, what if I still wish to be with Hannah after all of this? I stop thinking. I reach for her and kiss her. Not because I’m confused, but because I fucking love this woman.
My hands find her waist, and her mouth finds mine. The kiss is rough, tangled in guilt. She pulls at my shirt like she’s angry with it, and I let her. My hands slide up her back. Her skin is familiar and foreign all at once. My heart’s screaming at me to stop, but my body’s already moving. She pulls her top over her head. I follow suit. It’s like watching a car crash is about to happen, and still pressing the gas. She yanks me closer, breath hot against my neck. Her hands shake when she undoes my jeans.
Her back hits the table, and the rest of the clothes hit the floor. My sanity fucking goes out of my body. She’s not used to having sex like this; she doesn’t even like itlike this. But she hasn’t stopped me. Which means she wants to prove something, and I might let her.
I start touching her, but I stop. “Hannah, I love you, but I don’t know if we should…” She kisses me harder, pulls me closer, and whispers, “Just fuck me, Ethan, don’t think, don’t talk.” The table is about to collapse, so I grab her and throw her onto the couch. She smiles at me, and that undoes me. I get on top of her and start touching her. Grabbing her breasts, biting her nipples, she’s losing it.
“Please, I want you inside,” she says, pulling me closer, and I do. I slide into her, and it’s everything I remember—heat, tightness, that overwhelming wave that used to mean love. Now it just feels like drowning, but I love it. She gasps my name, and it clutches me like I’m something worth keeping. I hold her hips like I’m trying to convince myself of the same. She feels so good that for a second, I forget everything and give it all to her. Because she deserves this, she deserves it all.
I stay there for a second, after we’re finished, my forehead pressed to hers, both of us still catching our breath. My stomach’s already turning. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. Well, I wasn’t. That’s the problem. Her fingers comb through my hair gently, like nothing’s broken. And I can’t even look her in the eye.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
OLIVIA
I wake up angry.
Not throw-a-vase mad. Not even cry-into-your-pillow mad. Just that simmering, bone-deep, low-level rage that creeps in before your feet even hit the floor.
Hannah. Laughing at the bar like she owned the place. Like she hadn’t hijacked the night with her casual “wife and baby mama” declaration like it was a damn party trick. And Ethan? Just standing there. Jaw tight, lips sealed, saying absolutely nothing. I grab my phone. No message from him. Of course not. Must be too busy choking on guilt or still playing house with his actual wife.
“Whatever,” I mutter, but it sounds hollow. Because I know it’s not whatever. It’s never been whatever. Julia knocks once, purely for formality, and waltzes in like she lives here. Which, to be fair, she basically does at this point.
She’s holding two mugs, both steaming. “Coffee,”she declares, handing one over like a peace offering. “And before you ask, yes, I spiked it. I figured you’d need something stronger than caffeine.” I take it, grateful. “Thanks. You were not wrong.” She flops onto the bed beside me, messy bun listing slightly to the side, hoodie sleeves pushed up.
“You want to talk about last night?” she asks, voice cautious but teasing. “Because I’m still processing the part where she introduced herself like a Real Housewives tagline.” I snort, despite myself. “‘The wife, the baby mama.”
Julia raises an eyebrow. “Wow. That was alarmingly accurate. Should I be concerned you’ve been rehearsing?” I shrug, take a sip of the spiked coffee, and it burns a little, exactly the way I need it to. “You cope your way, I cope mine.”
She laughs, and it feels good, that short, honest kind of laugh that shakes something loose inside me. At this point, what else can I do?
I know what and who she is. She knows what and who I am. We all played our parts last night. She is the wife; I’m the ghost —the mistake. It’s messy and unfair and weirdly inevitable. And maybe, deep down, some part of me knew it was always going to end like this.
I glance at Julia, who’s now scrolling through her phone, humming like this is just another morning. “It’s fine,” I say quietly, mostly to myself. “I’ll be fine.” She looks up, eyes soft but skeptical. “You always are,” she says.
And I want to believe her. I really do.
Later,I’m halfway through an email when my phone buzzes. His name lights up the screen.
Ethan: Hey. How are you? Can we meet for lunch?
Oh, now he wants to talk. For a full minute, I just stare at the message, fingers hovering over the keyboard. I can practically feel my pulse in my thumb. Then I type back before I can talk myself out of it.
Me: Busy, but yeah, we can meet.
The second I hit send, I regret it. But I go anyway. Because apparently, I’m still that kind of idiot. The café is small, tucked near the site, all warm light and burnt espresso. He’s already there when I walk in, sitting by the window, same black T-shirt, same tired hands wrapped around a mug he’s probably not even drinking.
He looks like hell. Unshaven, eyes bruised from lack of sleep. I don’t ask. I’m not sure I want to hear the answer. I slide into the seat across from him, set my phone on the table, and stir my iced coffee to have something to do. He leans forward, voice low. “Liv, I’m sorry.”
