Page 35

Candles. Jesus Christ. He’s lit bloody candles.

There’s one flickering on the coffee table and another on the windowsill, next to the plant I keep forgetting to water.

A wine glass sits untouched by the arm of the sofa.

He’s cleaned, or at least tidied. Throw blankets folded.

Cushions plumped. It’s like walking into a stage set.

Mia barrels down the stairs like gravity’s only a suggestion. “Got it!” she shouts, almost losing her footing halfway down. “Claire’s gonna freak out when she sees it, it actually exploded earlier but I fixed it—look!”

She skids to a halt in the hallway, cradling the monstrosity like it’s a newborn. It’s a papier-maché volcano, lopsided and streaked with orange food colouring. Bits of foil cling to the base, and there’s glitter stuck to her forehead.

“Jesus,” I murmur. “It’s enormous.”

“I know! We’re gonna add dry ice if her mum lets us. Smoke effects and everything.” She’s buzzing, cheeks flushed, full of that giddy energy that only thirteen-year-olds and caffeine addicts possess.

I nod, trying to match her brightness. “Be careful walking with it, yeah?”

She leans over awkwardly to kiss my cheek without letting go of the volcano. “Love you!”

“Have fun, bug.”

And then she’s gone—shoulder first through the door, practically hopping down the front steps, project wobbling like it might go off again.

The silence that follows is thick.

I turn back toward the living room.

The candles flicker.

And I step inside.

He’s there. Sat on the edge of the sofa, elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced like he’s trying to hold himself together with them.

David Sinclair, poster boy for control. Always pressed. Always polished. Tailored trousers and just the right aftershave.

But not tonight.

Tonight he’s in grey sweatpants and a fitted crew neck tee, the kind that clings to every line of his too-perfect body. Barefoot. A rare five o’clock shadow softens his jaw, like he forgot to care—or wanted me to see that he didn’t.

He doesn’t look up right away. Just stares at the floor like it might hand him a script. Like he’s searching for the version of this where I don’t walk out.

I say nothing.

I hang my coat on the back of the chair even though I want to keep it on. Keep my keys in my hand. Keep one foot out the door.

He finally speaks, voice low, throat-wrecked. “Thanks for coming in.”

It’s so absurd I almost laugh. Like this is a bloody dinner reservation I’m late for.

I stay standing, arms crossed tight over my chest. “I live here.”

His eyes flick up at that—briefly. Bloodshot. There’s something desperate in them, but it’s buried deep. Like he’s still managing the optics, even now.

“Will you sit?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

“No.”

It comes out flat. Not cruel, not emotional. Just… final.

I stay rooted to the spot, arms folded. The only sound is the quiet tick of the clock and the soft flicker of a candle behind him.

“I—I don’t even know where to start,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It didn’t mean anything, Ellie.”

I don’t move. Don’t even blink.

He nods like he expected that. Like he knows the line won’t cut it, but he’s got to say it anyway. “I was drunk. It was stupid. One mistake. One night. I swear, it’s never happened before, and it will never happen again.”

Still nothing from me.

He shifts, palms dragging down his thighs. “I know that doesn’t help. I know it’s not enough. But I need you to understand—it wasn’t about you. It never was.”

I watch him.

The slump in his shoulders. The mess of his hair. The regret drawn tight in the lines around his eyes. He looks ruined. Not performative. Not theatrical. Just… wrecked.

And the worst part?

Some small, pathetic part of me aches for him.

The man I built a home with. The one I shared my body, my child, my whole life with. I know every inch of him—how he takes his coffee, the sound of his laugh when he’s half-asleep, the way he over-waters the basil and swears it’s thriving.

Now he’s sitting there, broken and sorry and soft in places he never used to be.

That old, ugly instinct in me wants to reach out. To fix . To forgive.

But I don’t.

I look at him. Really look at him.

And I say the truth, as quiet and honest as I’ve ever said anything.

“You broke me, David.” My voice is low. Honest.

His eyes squeeze shut. And then he’s moving—up off the sofa, crossing the space between us in two quick steps.

His hands cup my face—gentle, but firm. Like he’s trying to hold me close. Keep me here. Keep me his.

His eyes search mine, wild and glassy. Our foreheads almost touch.

“I know, Ellie. I know.” His voice cracks. “But don’t give up on us. We can fix this. I’ll do anything. Tell me what you need.”

His thumbs tremble against my cheekbones.

I don’t move. My hands hang limp at my sides while he clings to me like I’m the only thing keeping him upright. His breath is warm against my skin. His aftershave clings to the air between us—familiar, expensive. The bottle I wrapped in tissue paper for his birthday last year.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I’ll never stop being sorry. You have every right to hate me. To leave. But I love you. I love you so much it hurts, and I don’t know who I am without you.”

And just like that, I feel it.

The slow, traitorous give of my walls softening under the weight of his voice. The way his words curl their way into the rawest parts of me—gentle, poisonous, effective.

I know what this is.

I know how it works—how someone can dismantle you kindly. With love in their eyes. With trembling hands on your skin. With words that sound like repentance but taste like rewrites.

And still, I can’t stop it.

The doubt creeps in, slow and careful.

Maybe it wasn’t that simple. Maybe he didn’t mean to. Maybe I should’ve done more. Been more. Maybe this doesn’t have to be the end.

He’s in my head.

Twisting the truth with tears and tenderness. Making me feel guilty for being hurt.

And the worst part?

Some dark, exhausted part of me wants to let him.

Because if he’s sorry— truly sorry—then maybe we don’t have to burn it all down. Because what he’s saying… it sounds like love. Like accountability. Like the man I fell for before the distance. Before the silence. Before the betrayal.

I want to scream at myself to wake up.

But I just stand there, drowning in the softness of a man who knows exactly how to play me.

And I hate myself for it. Because this isn’t black and white. It’s grey and raw and murky as hell.

“Ellie,” he whispers.

But the way he says my name—like it’s the last thread holding him together—undoes something in me. Something small and stupid and tired.

His hands stay on my face, brushing over skin gone cold. His eyes are glassy, searching mine—begging for a version of this where I choose him.

Tears spill down his cheeks.

Then I feel it?—

That first betrayal of my composure, sliding hot and slow down my face.

Because seeing him like this—this broken, this bare— breaks something in me.

Not out of love. Not out of forgiveness.

Just the sheer weight of it. The history. The grief of watching something I once believed in fall apart right in front of me.

His hands don’t grip anymore. They hold. Like he already knows I’m halfway gone.

“I just—I don’t know, David. Honestly.” The words fall from my mouth like ash. “I don’t know how to move past it.”

He shakes his head, almost frantic. “You don’t have to know. We’ll work it out. I’ll prove it to you—every day, Ellie. I’ll earn you back.”

And for a second, I almost nod.

Almost let the warmth of his promise pull me back into the illusion.

But something shifts.

Something old and fierce and buried deep suddenly claws its way to the surface.

And I hear a voice— my voice—cutting through the noise.

“I don’t I trust you,” I say, quiet but clear. “Not anymore.”

He flinches. Barely. But I feel it.

“I want to. God, I want to,” I admit, voice cracking. “But I can’t pretend this didn’t change something. That it didn’t break something.”

He opens his mouth, but I shake my head before he can speak.

“You want me to say it’ll be okay,” I murmur. “But I don’t know that it will. I don’t know how to make it okay.”

For a moment, he looks at me. Like he doesn’t recognise the version of me that won’t bend.

Then something changes.

It’s subtle. A flicker in his expression. A breath that comes too sharp. His hands fall away from my face.

“You don’t know ,” he repeats, voice flatter now. Like the emotion’s been ironed out of it. “Ellie, I’ve been standing here owning up to everything. I’m trying to fix this. But you—you’re not even trying to meet me halfway.”

I blink. “David?—”

“You’ve already decided. You’re standing there, looking at me like I’m a stranger. Like everything we’ve been through means nothing.”

“You cheated on me, David.” I snap.

“I know ! And I’ve said I’m sorry. I’ve told you I’ll do whatever it takes. But you’re punishing me for being human. For slipping, once, after everything I’ve done for this family.”

I flinch.

He sees it—and softens his tone. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just—Ellie, I’ve carried a lot. The hours. The pressure. Supporting you through uni, making sure Mia has everything, keeping this house running?—”

“I never asked you to?—”

“You didn’t have to,” he snaps, then reins it in. “You didn’t have to ask. I wanted to. Because I love you. Because I wanted this life with you. But now you’re ready to throw it all away?”

I stare at him. But my silence only invites more.

“I even helped you patch things up with your parents! Do you think they’d be playing happy families now if it wasn’t for me holding the middle?”

I feel my jaw clench, but I can’t speak.

“I’ve loved Mia like she’s mine, made sure she’s safe, supported, happy —and now you’re ready to walk out on all of it?”

“I’m not walking out on Mia.”

“No,” he says tightly. “But you’re still blowing her life apart. Her home. The version of family she knows.”

I stare at him, throat tight, pulse thudding.

He steps in again, hands brushing mine, tone softer now. Persuasive. “I’m not trying to hurt you, Ellie. I’m trying to show you what we have. What you’ll lose if you go.”

His eyes flicker over mine. “You think starting over’s going to be easier? You think someone else is going to come in and love her like I do? Or love you the way I have? What you’re doing is walking away from something good , just because it got hard.”

And there it is.

The twist.

The part where my pain becomes the problem. Where his betrayal becomes my blame to carry.

Where I become the one who’s breaking us—all because I won’t pretend it never happened.

And finally, I see it.

He’s not fighting for me. He’s fighting to stay in control of the story.

I wrap my arms around myself, the silence between us stretching thin and brittle.

“I don’t even know who you are anymore,” I say quietly. “I can’s see past what you did. I’ve tried. I’ve really tried. But I don’t think there’s a version of this we can come back from.”

I turn before he can answer, before he can rearrange his face into something that might undo me.

I walk away.

And just as I reach the hallway, I hear it.

The sharp smash of glass.

Then the dull, violent thud of something hitting the wall—or the door.

I don’t stop to look.

I keep walking.

One step. Then another.

And somewhere deep in my chest, beneath the fear and the ache and the guilt that still clings like smoke, a flicker of something steadier burns.

Resolve.

A quiet, trembling truth I haven’t had the courage to name until now.

I don’t want to be someone who stays because it’s easier.

I don’t want to keep choosing someone who didn’t choose me.

Not anymore.