Page 12 of Absolution (Infidelty #3)

Kyle April, 2024

“I still don’t understand why you don’t just move to New York,”

Kenton Greyson says, wiping his mouth with a napkin. I'm surprised he waited till we finished eating to bring it up.

I sip my water and keep my voice even.

“Texas has one of the best paediatric transplant centres in the country. Levi’s doing well, but I’m not about to gamble with his health.”

“There are hospitals in New York too,”

he says with a snort.

“We’re not practicing medicine in the dark ages. I’ll find him the best doctors. He’s my grandson.”

For someone who didn’t even meet him until he was nine, he sure acts like Levi is the centre of his universe now. I watch him excuse himself to the restroom, adjusting the cuff of his shirt like this whole conversation was a boardroom formality.

While he’s gone, I check my messages. A missed call from Jackie. A couple texts from the girls. They don’t have phones yet, but we do have a kids tablet that they can use. Jemma sent me a picture of Levi holding a lizard. He looks happy. That’s what matters.

The truth is, Texas was supposed to be temporary. But now? I can’t imagine moving back.

The firm is considering opening a satellite office in Austin. That’s the real reason for all these trips. Their main office is in New York, but they already have branches in Chicago, Boston, where we are right now. And yeah, it’s nice to get away. Jackie came back after her little break like everything was fine, but it wasn’t. Not for me. I tried. But something had cracked and never quite sealed.

Now, I go home for the kids. I stay married for the routine, for the stability. For them.

My father returns, wiping his hands with a napkin.

“I’ve paid the tab,”

he says, walking past me.

“You flying out tonight?”

“Tomorrow,”

I say, standing.

“Figured I could use a day.”

He claps a hand on my back, smirking once we get outside.

“Have fun,”

he says as his driver opens the door.

I watch the car pull away before walking back towards my hotel. The street is warm and loud with the city’s chaos, but inside, it’s quiet.

He thinks I’m just like him.

Maybe I am.

What my father doesn’t know is that my marriage ended long before I ever thought about walking away. Jackie left first, not for good, but enough to hollow the whole thing out. And when there’s nothing left to betray, can it be called cheating?

Sure, I could have said something. Made it official. But why rock the boat? Why blow up the only structure holding our lives together?

It’s been weeks since we touched each other. She must know what that means.

And even if she wanted out, what would she take with her? The prenup’s ironclad. And after her little breakdown, any lawyer would tell you the same thing: she’d be lucky to get visitation.

So, she won’t leave and neither will I.

We’re stuck.

I walk through the hotel lobby like I belong here. The Langham smells like money, old and new. The kind that’s inherited and the kind that’s clawed for. You can always tell the difference. The ones who grew up rich, walk like the world owes them everything. The ones who dreamed it all up move like they’re afraid it’ll vanish.

The concierge nods at me. I nod back. No words. Just another man in a suit, going through the motions.

In the elevator, I lean back against the mirrored wall and catch my reflection. Still sharp. Still commanding. Even tired, I look better than half the suits in this building on their best day. The tie’s snug against my throat, a power statement I didn’t bother loosening. There’s a line between my brows now, stress, maybe age, but it just makes me look more serious. More seasoned.

I rake a hand through my hair; let it fall the way women like. Jackie used to run her fingers through it, back when she still looked at me like I hung the damn moon. Most of them do, eventually. They always want the sharp one in the room. The man who doesn’t beg or break. The one who walks like he owns the ground under him.

I exhale slowly. This city knows me. So does this mirror. And I still like what I see.

Fourteenth floor. I slide my keycard into the door, and the lock clicks open.

Inside, it’s cold and quiet. I kick off my shoes by the couch and toss my blazer onto the armrest. The silence wraps around me, thick and familiar. I walk to the minibar, pour a glass of water, and turn the TV on to some late-night recap, muted commentary, just the low hum of something to fill the space. It’s habit more than interest. Background noise against the louder quiet in my head.

Heading to the bed, I start peeling off my shirt, then my pants. They land in a pile on the chair. I grab a towel from the rack and sling it over my shoulder, walking into the bathroom.

I don’t bother with hot water. Not anymore.

Lately, I’ve been watching this guy on YouTube, some ex-Navy SEAL or mindset coach or whatever. Talks about routine, mental strength, discomfort. Cold showers. Said they train the mind to stay calm in chaos, teach your body discipline. So far, the guy’s been on the money.

I turn the dial all the way cold and step in.

It hits like needles at first. My breath catches. I grit my teeth. But I stay under. Let it bite. Let it burn.

By the time I step out, I’m wide awake. Focused. My skin is goose bumped and flushed, but my head’s clear. Towel around my waist, I scrub my hair dry, and head toward the minibar, when there’s a knock at the door.

Swinging open the door, I’m not shocked to see her standing there, holding the cart like we didn’t already know how this night would end the second she saw me come back to the hotel. Her smile says the same.

“Room service,”

she says, rolling the tray in without waiting for a response. Her badge reads Ava, same as every other time this week. Her voice is syrup-smooth, practiced.

I step aside, watching her push the cart in like she owns the place. She’s wearing the hotel uniform, but her top button is undone, I’m not sure it ever started out closed.

She parks the tray beside the couch, then straightens, turning to me with a smirk that’s halfway between professional and something else entirely.

“Bit late, isn’t it?”

I say, not hiding the edge in my voice.

She shrugs lightly, fingering the lapel of her shirt.

“We’ve been backed up all evening. I’m here now, though.”

Her gaze drops for a second, deliberate.

“Is there anything else I can get you, sir?”

Her tone leaves no doubt what she’s offering. Like this is routine. Like we’ve done this before.

Because we have.

I lean against the wall, arms crossed, towel slung low on my hips. Regret doesn’t even register anymore. This is my life now, three beautiful kids, a marriage that’s run cold, and quiet moments like this where I let someone else's touch fill the space my wife used to occupy. She’s younger, too young and she shouldn’t be here. But as she steps closer, lips parted just enough, I don’t stop her.

“I missed you,”

she murmurs, voice low and warm.

That’s a problem. I’m leaving tomorrow and won’t see her again. Probably for the best. I don’t want strings. And a divorce? Not worth the fight, not yet.

“Get on the bed,”

I say, my tone even. Detached.

Her heels click softly against the hardwood as she walks. Turning towards the minibar, I pour myself a whiskey, and toss it back. It slides down with a sweet burn.

When I turn around, she’s waiting, sprawled across the centre of the bed, her eyes locked on me. Everything about her is an invitation.

She’s lying in the bed like she belongs there. Long legs stretched out, hair fanned across the pillows. The only thing on her is her heels, the rest is completely and shamelessly bare. Her body is sculpted, the kind that doesn't just come from youth but effort, clearly looked after, toned, and tempting.

I don’t move right away. Just stand there, one hand wrapped around the glass meant for her. The silence pulses between us. She doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t have to. Her eyes track over me like she knows exactly how this night ends. Her heels dig harder into the bed as she spreads her legs, and moves her hand down, between her breasts, over her stomach, landing on her perfectly pink pussy.

I let her have this moment of control, the illusion of it, anyway. Let her stretch herself across the bed, let her think she’s steering the night.

But we both know the truth.

From the first time she knocked on my door, I made it clear: I’m not here to be sweet, or gentle, or play pretend. I told her, flat out, if she wanted polite conversation and soft touches, she was at the wrong door. That’s not what I offer. That’s not who I am in here.

She said she didn’t want vanilla. Good.

She holds my gaze now, waiting. There’s no hesitation, no fear, just that quiet challenge, the kind that makes surrender taste better when it finally comes.

She thrusts two fingers inside her pussy, arching her back. Done with waiting, I finish the glass in my hands in one gulp and walk toward her. Dropping the towel, I pause to grab the box of condoms and lube from the cabinet. About a few months ago, I took a long trip and got a vasectomy. Last thing I need is a woman showing up with a kid in tow.

I crawl onto the bed from the bottom, stopping when my face is between her legs. Ripping her hands away from her pussy I flip her over until she on her knees, with her ass up.

Kneeling behind her, I wrap her hair around my fist, using it as leverage to raise her until her back is plastered to my front.

“Is this what you came for?”

“Please.”

She begs in a breathy voice.

Well, who am I to say no?