Page 2 of Wild Heart

When she pulled up outside the brownstone she shared with Giles, the street was mostly empty.

The building loomed in the soft evening light, its red-brick facade trimmed with white-painted molding, tall windows framed with wrought iron.

There was a planter near the steps filled with tulips just beginning to bloom, placed there weeks ago by Natalie herself in a hopeful gesture that now felt foolish.

She lingered in the driver’s seat, engine ticking as it cooled.

The house looked the same as always, a three-story with a polished brass door knocker in the shape of a lion’s head.

Her name was still on the mailbox. Her keys still fit the lock.

But tonight, it felt foreign, like checking in to a hotel room that someone else had just vacated.

She climbed the stone steps slowly, her bag pulling at her down, shoulders hunched slightly against a force not entirely physical. Inside, the air smelled faintly of cologne and cooking. There was a jacket draped over the banister. Not Giles'. Unless it was new.

Natalie’s stomach fluttered. She toed off her shoes and crossed the foyer, the hardwood floors cool beneath her feet.

The walls were painted a tasteful dove gray, with framed black-and-white photographs from their travels lining the hallway.

Paris, Rome, Kyoto. A museum of memories, each one whispering a version of happiness she barely recognized anymore.

The house was dim, lit only by the under-cabinet lights in the kitchen and the glow from the living room television, which was paused on a black screen with the Netflix logo.

“Giles?”

No answer.

She moved toward the kitchen, half-expecting to see him sitting at the counter with a glass of wine in his hand. But the stool was empty. A half-finished glass sat on the marble island, deep red clinging to the crystal walls. The dishwasher did its thing in the corner.

A sound upstairs. A soft, hurried thump. Natalie stood very still.

Then, slowly, she walked toward the stairs.

The air changed as she climbed. Warmer. The faint scent of perfume clung to the banister.

Something floral. Not hers. At the top of the stairs, the bedroom door was ajar.

She pushed it open. The bed was unmade, the sheets tangled and scrunched at the bottom of the mattress.

The tell-tale signs of lovemaking and a rare occurrence.

The window was cracked to let in the breeze, and a pair of champagne flutes sat on the nightstand beside an empty bottle of prosecco.

And on the floor, just beside the foot of the bed, lay a pair of lacy black stockings.

Natalie stared at them. Her mind cataloged details with clinical detachment.

Far too small. Style not hers, tacky. Her breath hitched.

Her chest felt hollow, like all the air had been knocked out of her in a single silent blow.

She had suspected it for some time, the late nights, the cryptic texts, the sudden interest in working out and buying expensive cologne.

But a part of her, the part still hoping, had refused to believe it.

She thought if she just stayed patient, held onto the fragments of what they were, things would get better.

She was wrong. Her hand reached for the bedpost to steady herself, the cool wood grounding her in the moment. Then came the rush, a wave of heat, disbelief, a noise in her ears like static.

“Giles!” she called, louder this time.

No answer.

Then the sound of the bathroom door opening. He appeared in the doorway a second later, shirtless, hair damp, towel slung around his waist.

He froze. “Natalie.”

She didn’t speak. Just stared at him, at the room, at the evidence so casually displayed.

He followed her gaze, and something flickered in his expression. Not guilt. Not panic. Irritation.

She finally spoke. "Who was she?"

"Nat, don’t."

"Don’t? Don’t what, Giles? Don’t ask why there’s a stranger’s underwear on our floor? Or why you’re standing there looking like you got caught rehearsing your lies in the mirror?"

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I was going to tell you."

“Really? Or did you just get caught out?"

He walked past her to grab the flutes, dumped them in the en-suite sink. "I suppose I did but it’s not all on me, Nat. You’re never here. You’re always working. Always exhausted. We haven’t connected in years."

Her voice dropped, trembling with restrained fury. "So that justifies cheating on me?"

"I’m not justifying anything," he snapped, turning back to her. "I’m explaining. There’s a difference. "

She laughed, sharp and humorless. "No, Giles. There isn’t."

The silence between them stretched long in the space of all the unspoken things they’d avoided for too long.

She finally said, quieter now, "How long has this been going on? Is it serious or is it a fling?"

His pause was the answer.

Natalie nodded slowly, absorbing the impact like a punch. "Wow."

"I didn’t plan for this to happen. It just... it happened. And it made me realize how far apart we’ve grown."

"You could have talked to me."

"And said what? That I don’t know if I love you anymore? That I feel like a ghost in my own house?"

She flinched.

He looked like he regretted it the second it came out. But it was too late.

She crossed her arms over her chest, as if to hold herself together. "So that’s it? You’ve made up your mind?"

He looked at her for a long moment. "I don’t know. I need space."

"Then take it," she said. "Take all the space you need."

He moved toward the closet, pulled on a shirt, jeans, grabbed his keys. His cologne lingered behind him, the same scent she used to love, now cloying and foreign.

"I’ll go to Ed’s," he muttered. "Give you time to think."

But she could tell it was he who needed the distance. He who couldn’t stand the sight of what he’d broken. The door slammed behind him. Natalie stood in the silence he left behind, the final cycle of the dishwasher the only sound in the house.

She didn’t move for a long time. Just stood there, staring at the place where the stockings had been, the air still tainted with perfume that didn’t belong to her.

Her legs finally gave out, and she sank to the floor, back against the bed she would never sleep in again.

No tears. Not yet. Only the sound of her own breath, shallow and uneven, and the yawning ache that opened inside her like a chasm.

This was the moment her marriage ended. No lawyers.

No documents. Just black lace, a slammed door, and a silence that echoed louder than any words.

Outside, the city kept moving, indifferent, unfeeling.

Inside, Natalie Carrington sat alone in the ruins of what used to be her life.

And for the first time in a long time, she had no idea what came next.