She didn’t touch it.
Almost twelve thousand dollars.
Sitting there.
While she lived in her van.
“Jesus Christ,” I whisper.
Guilt hits hard.
Harder than anything else so far.
Because I left that money there, thinking she’d use it. That she’d get to where she needed to go, and that would be that.
I mean, she already had someone else.
Someone she wanted—right?
Fuck.
My jaw clenches.
Is that who she is?
The woman I married?
The one who walked away from money and stability to sleep in a van if it meant not taking what she didn’t feel was hers?
Or is she the woman Paul described?
The one who laughed behind my back and climbed into his bed the second I shipped out?
It doesn’t make sense.
None of it does.
We met.
We fell hard.
Fast.
Married before either of us could think twice about it.
And I didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t question it.
The second I saw her, I knew.
She was it.
The one.
The only woman I’ve ever loved.
Still fucking love if I’m man enough to admit it.
