Page 29

“I’ll text you,” she said, barely above a whisper.

I nodded. “Okay.”

We stood there a second too long.

I followed her to the curb. Watched her slide into the backseat without looking back. No dramatic wave. No kiss. Just a quiet closing of the door that felt heavier than it should’ve.

The car pulled off slow.

I stayed there, arms crossed, jaw tight, watching the taillights disappear down the street.

She was gone. For now.

And I didn’t know what came next.

Chapter 16- Zane

The inside of my house felt cold when I walked in after a week, and it was not the temperature. I didn’t want to be there.

I dropped my bag by the front door and stood there a minute. Just… looking. Everything was exactly how I left it. It looked lived-in. It looked like love. But it didn’t feel like home anymore.

I walked toward the kitchen on muscle memory, my footsteps echoing against tile that Mark said would “last forever.” Mark had let me pick the house I wanted. Gave me money to buy whatever I wanted. Said I deserved everything.

I thought about calling Sam. Just to hear his voice. But I didn’t. Not because I didn’t want to—but because I needed space for a minute to think everything through. Now that this fine man wasn’t in my face, tempting me, I could see how maybe I’d been acting on emotions.

My hands rested on my stomach.

What if I was pregnant?

I had wanted to ask Sam what we’d do if I was. That moment I was wrapped around him, begging him to cum inside me, flashed in my head. I had to exhale,as my nipples tightened. I could feel the space between my thighs get wet. I didn’t evenwant to unpack why I felt so desperate and needy around him… why I felt desperate and needy away from him.

But what if I made a mistake?

A reckless mistake—and he went back to his wife, and I left Mark and ended up with a baby who didn’t even have a daddy. But then, I was getting ahead of myself. He hadn’t promised me anything.

Tomorrow, I’d figure it out.

Right now, I had to figure out how to explain to my husband why I hadn’t answered his calls in a week—when everything in me wanted to ransack his shit and burn it. But I’d promised Sam I’d give him time.

I sighed again. I decided I’d make Mark’s favorite—honey garlic chicken, stir-fried vegetables and risotto, which needed prep and time to marinate. Then I’d bake a cake and cookies for the women’s shelter to keep my mind off what had become of my life.

I grabbed vegetables for the stir-fry from the cutting board.

Chop. Chop. Chop.

The house was too quiet—but I left it that way. I didn’t want music or a podcast or the TV.

I scraped the vegetables into a bowl and wiped my hands on a towel.

The quiet might’ve been a bad idea because my mind drifted to Sam.

And suddenly I wanted to feel his hands on my waist. Ineededto feel his hands anywhere on me, and it was pissing me off that I couldn’t.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding and went to the fridge to grab the leftover dough from a week ago. When I baked, my mind went blank.

Press. Fold. Turn.

But baking wasn’t helping. Not this time.