CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The rest of the night has been much less disturbing. It’s passed by without incident, actually. I held my panic attack at bay and sat through dinner, feigning normalcy. Mari hasn’t shown back up, and neither has Saint. So far.
Each bite of Shephard’s perfectly seasoned chicken felt like ash in my mouth. I smiled, I nodded, I asked the girls about their week at school, all while feeling like I’d just earned the World’s Worst Wife and Mother of the Century award. I can feel it, a tarnished invisible medal hanging heavy around my neck.
The acute tension that clung to me earlier in the day has settled now into something deeper, something heavier. There’s no easy way to release it.
We move through the motions of a normal evening with the clatter of dishes as Shephard cleans up, the familiar shouts of the girls from the guest room, but nothing feels normal. It’s all a flimsy stage set, and I’m a terrible actress tonight. I try to lose myself in the routine of bedtime, helping the girls brush their teeth, the minty scent a fleeting comfort, tucking them into their brightly colored duvets, kissing their foreheads as they drift off. The familiar comforts of motherhood should ease my mind, should anchor me, but they don’t. They only amplify the piercing guilt.
The girls are out by nine, asleep together in the spare bedroom. I stand by their door for a moment, watching their peaceful, unsuspecting faces, my heart heavy with a guilt so profound it threatens to swallow me whole. How can I possibly reconcile myself to the fact that I’ve so irrevocably betrayed the life I built with Shephard, the life I treasure as their mother, to the dark, illicit secret now pulsing beneath my skin? The guilt gnaws at me, twisting my stomach into tight, painful knots, a persistent, physical reminder. But I push it down, deep down, as far as I can, burying it under layers of denial, and head into the living room.
I text Nora as I make my way toward the couch. Shephard and the girls just showed up unannounced. I hit send.
Immediately, she responds with Noooooo. Asshole!
I sit next to Shephard on the couch and chuckle at her response. She knows what it’s like being a writer and in the groove, only to be interrupted countless times by people who don’t get it. It’s why I have to write somewhere away from home—because home is a constant revolving door.
If it’s not one kid, it’s the other, or Shephard, or my sister, or my mother, or a UPS driver. Although, the UPS driver is usually my fault. I tend to online
shop when I get emotional about work.
I get a lot of packages delivered.
Shephard doesn’t look up from whatever he’s doing when I sink into the couch. We don’t feel the discomfort when the girls are in the room, but when it’s just the two of us, there’s a distance between us that wasn’t there before, or perhaps was always there, only now it’s become a yawning chasm. Since I stopped being able to write and the money issues began, we argue more than we compliment. He’s lived a cush life until now.
Now, he’s just stressed. All the time. When I started making better money, he took a lower-paying position to ease his stress, but he’s regretting it now. He hasn’t said it, but he implies it with little jabs here and there. I just ignore it. Sure, I wish I had a husband who understood the emotional trauma I’ve been through, but I guess both spouses end up feeling the fallout of financial burdens, so I understand that he’s under stress too.
He’s beside me physically, the familiar warmth of his leg brushing mine through the denim of his jeans, but mentally, emotionally, we’re worlds apart, orbiting different planets. His laptop is propped on his knees, the screen casting a pale glow on his face, his fingers tapping away on the keys as he catches up on work, bills, something mundane and responsible.
He’s focused, absorbed in whatever report or email he’s typing up, his brow furrowed in concentration. I wonder if he senses the shift between us, if he can feel the chasm growing wider, the silence between us thickening with unspoken grievances. Or is he truly oblivious?
He has no idea that he isn’t the last man I kissed. The last man to see me naked. The last man inside me. The thought sits like a cold, heavy stone in my gut.
I have the television on, the screen flickering with chaotic scenes from some show I can’t even remember the name of. Distant gunfire, dramatic music. But I can’t pay attention to it. The characters move across the screen, saying words I barely register. My mind is elsewhere.
I’ve never cheated on Shephard before. I’ve never even had the urge.
For years, our marriage felt solid, built on a foundation of shared history, quiet companionship, and a love that, while perhaps not fiery, felt steady and true. We’ve had our ups and downs, of course. The usual ebb and flow of any long-term relationship. Money stresses, parenting disagreements, the natural drift of routine. But I never, ever thought I’d be the type to have an affair, to cross that line. It’s the kind of thing that happens to other people, in other relationships. Not mine. I thought I was better than that, stronger, more grounded. But here I am, sinking under the devastating consequences of my own choices, choices I never imagined I’d make, never dreamed I was capable of.
And it was so easy. Too easy. I barely thought of him, of Shephard, in those moments. It was like when Saint was around, when his intensity filled the space, Shephard was out of sight, out of mind. Why? Why was it so simple to betray the man I vowed to cherish? The man sitting just inches from me, oblivious.
“Are you even listening?” Shephard’s voice, sharper than I expected, slices through my thoughts. He’s looking at me now, his laptop half closed on his knees, a flicker of irritation in his eyes.
“What?” I force my gaze from the flickering screen to his face. “Sorry.
Just . . . tired.” The lie is instant, automatic.
He sighs, a small, weary sound. “I was just saying, I finally got our expense report done, but I want to make sure I have every bill listed before I meet with the accountant. So if you’re feeling up to it, maybe you could look over some of it before me and the girls head out in the morning?” His tone is carefully neutral, but I catch the subtle dip in his voice on “if you’re feeling up to it,” a barbed wire wrapped in concern.
A familiar resentment prickles. His moods seem to ebb and flow with the fluctuations of my career. When my books were flying off shelves, when the advances were big, he was my biggest cheerleader, and subtly, my manager, my financial advisor, taking pride in our success. But now, with the backlash from my last book, with the cancel culture biting hard, with my creative well feeling dry for months . . . now it’s different. The pride has curdled into something else. And he acts like he’s some martyr, saving us from my bad choices.
It’s like he wants to own my successes, but when I fail, those are all on me.
“Money trouble is the last thing I need in my brain, Shephard,” I say, my voice tighter than I intend. “That’s why I came to the cabin, to try and solve our money issues. Going over them in detail will just make my writer’s block worse.”
He raises an eyebrow, a sardonic curve to his lips. “Right. Well, the well’s looking a little dry, Petra, and I can’t keep hoping you’ll find inspiration. Good intent doesn’t pay the bills. Producing something does.”
“For your information, I’ve written over half a book since I got here.
Thanks for asking. I’ve been in a groove until . . .”
Shephard sets his phone down beside him. “Until we showed up?”
I sigh. “I’m due to be home for Chloe’s birthday next weekend for two whole days. I don’t know why you thought it was a good idea to interrupt two more of my writing days. That means I’ll get three writing days out of the whole week, tops. It’s not enough, and I can’t just switch it on and off.”
“The girls missed you,” he says, his words sharp. “Sorry you have people who love you.” He stands up, heading toward the kitchen.
“That’s not . . .” Ugh. I drop my hands to the couch on either side of me and groan. “That’s not fair. Writing is a weird beast, and you know I work best when I have stretches of solitude. I love you, and I love my girls, but it’s like you can’t even get through a week without needing me to give you a reprieve. When do I get my reprieve?”
“How many episodes of Love Island have you watched since you’ve been here? You can’t tell me you actually spend all day every day writing.
I’ve been working, watching the girls, all while trying to figure out how to get our finances in order for our meeting with the accountant. Sorry if I can’t understand how a vacation in a . . .” He looks around. “You can’t even call this a cabin. A vacation in a dream home can in any way be torture. All I asked is for you to look at some numbers. My bad. I’ll do it myself.”
The jab lands, sharp and precise. It always comes back to money, to my career, to the fact that for so long, I was the primary earner. And now that I’m struggling, it’s thrown everything off balance, and he isn’t taking it well.
“Are you implying I haven’t been working?” My voice rises, a defensive heat flushing my cheeks. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to write under this kind of pressure? With all the noise?”
He leans against the counter, crossing his arms, his expression hardening. “Pressure? Petra, you get to write stories for a living. I sit in
meetings all day, dealing with spreadsheets and corporate politics, trying to hang on to my job so a fresh-out-of-college kid doesn’t come in and do it for half the price. Don’t tell me about pressure. And frankly, your noise is partly your own making. You didn’t want to be more well known, and I tried to tell you letting them adapt one of your books was just going to make your life more stressful.”
“So now my success is the problem? I thought my lack of success was the problem.”
“No, the problem is you made a lot of money and now you’re making none. I’m happy you’re writing, but I’m a little annoyed that you’re annoyed we’re here. One day isn’t going to make or break this book. You’re
being kind of a bitch.”
My jaw drops.
His immediately tightens.
He steps toward me, pulling me in for an embrace. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m just . . . I’m stressed, okay?”
In all our years of marriage, he’s never once used that word at me.
“I wasn’t calling you a bitch. Just . . . God. Our financial future isn’t as secure as it was when you were churning out bestsellers every six months.
All I asked was for you to look over expenses, and you’re acting like I don’t appreciate what you do for our family.” He pulls back and looks me in the eye. “I just need a little help, Petra. From my wife.”
The words hang in the air. My wife. The role I’m failing so spectacularly at.
He’s not wrong, not entirely. He carries a burden too. But his inability to truly understand the creative block, the emotional toll of public scrutiny, feels so unsupportive. He always wants me to be the successful, unbothered author, not the messy human struggling beneath the weight of it all.
“I know,” I say, my voice softening, the anger deflating, leaving behind only exhaustion. “I know. It’s just . . . it’s hard to switch gears. My head’s not in that space right now. And with . . . with everything else.” I almost say Saint, but the name catches in my throat, a dangerous secret.
He just sighs, releasing me. The conversation, like so many lately, dead-ends, unresolved. We’re both left with our unspoken grievances, our quiet resentments. He’s stressed, I’m guilty and creatively stifled, and the money situation is a constant undercurrent of tension.
I look at him, at his tired profile, and the guilt gnaws. He’s not a bad man. He’s working hard for our family. But the connection, the spark, the understanding that used to bridge these gaps, feels thin. And I just made it so much worse.
I just don’t feel like I’m Petra here, so him showing up and bringing my real life into my creative solitude is jarring.
These writing weeks give me an opportunity to slip out of my own skin and into the skin of someone else entirely. I sometimes get so immersed in my writing, I don’t just create the character; I become her. It’s like I’m living in two worlds at once—one where I’m Petra, the struggling yet outwardly faithful wife and mother, and another where I’m whichever character I’m writing at the moment, someone who exists only on the pages of my book, unburdened by consequence.
Some call it Method writing, and I suppose I can blame my actions on that, blame it on the fact that I let myself get too deep into the story this time. I let the characters take over, let the narrative consume me, and for a while, it felt like I wasn’t even in control anymore. But it doesn’t excuse what I’ve done. It doesn’t change the cold, hard fact that I made a choice, that I crossed a line I can never uncross.
I cheated on my husband, the man who just sat down on the couch again to scroll through his spreadsheets. And all I can do is hope to hell he never finds out. Because if he does, the tenuous thread our marriage hangs by will snap.
The thought of him knowing, of Shephard looking at me with that raw, wounded hurt and betrayal in his eyes, makes my stomach churn, a sickening, acidic burn. It would destroy him. It would destroy us, the life we’ve meticulously built, brick by agonizing brick.
I’ve always prided myself on my self-control, on my ability to separate fiction from reality, to walk the line between my imagination and my life.
But now it feels like everything is bleeding together, indistinguishable, in ways I never expected.
Shephard closes his laptop with a soft, decisive click, the sound sharp and final, breaking through the heavy silence that’s settled between us. It’s been minutes since our terse exchange, minutes filled with the silent hum of the refrigerator and the low volume on the television. He slides the laptop off his lap and onto the couch beside him, his movements slow and deliberate, like he’s considering something profound, something weighty. I
can feel him looking at me, his gaze lingering, a warm, familiar weight on my skin, but I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes. Instead, I pretend I’m watching the television, forcing my eyes to stay glued to the screen, focusing on the garish colors, even though I have no idea what’s happening in the ridiculous show, its plot a meaningless blur.
“I didn’t expect this,” he says.
Didn’t expect what? My stomach lurches, cold and empty.
Panic flares in my chest, hot and suffocating. For a split second, a terrifying, absolute certainty crashes over me: He knows. He knows. I think he’s figured it out, that somehow, impossibly, he’s pieced together the truth.
I turn to him immediately, my pulse racing, thrumming a frantic rhythm in my ears.
“Didn’t expect what?” I ask, my voice sharper than I intend, betraying my sudden, overwhelming fear.
He smiles, a soft, almost wistful expression, his eyes kind but searching, piercing through my facade. “You not being happy that we’re here.” He says it simply, not as an accusation, but as an observation. He’s watching me closely, waiting for my response, but it’s clear he doesn’t suspect anything beyond what’s on the surface—my creative frustration, my need for solitude.
His blindness is both a relief and a new kind of pain.
I can’t relax, not really. The tightness in my chest remains. “What? Of course I am,” I say, but even to my own ears, it sounds forced, hollow, a pathetic attempt at conviction. I plaster a smile on my face, twisting my lips into a semblance of ease, but I know it doesn’t reach my eyes, which still feel wide and terrified.
Shephard’s expression is one of understanding, but there’s something bittersweet about it, a subtle undertone of melancholy. “You were in the groove and we interrupted you. I should have called first. I’m sorry. It’s like we sucked you out of a dream, Petra.”
I let out a short, bitter laugh, unable to help myself, the sound rough and dry. “Or a nightmare,” I mutter under my breath, the words slipping out before I can stop them, a raw, uncontrolled confession. I glance at him, hoping he didn’t catch the tension in my voice, the dark double meaning, but he only laughs again, a light, dismissive chuckle, completely unaware.
“You’ve always been way too hard on yourself,” he says, shaking his head, a fond exasperation in his tone. “But it works out. Every time you
come here, you leave with the bones of a brand-new book. It’s your magic place. I believe in you, and I’m sorry I snapped at you. It’s not fair of me to
show up and put burdens on you.”
He’s right.
But even though the words I need to hear are pouring from his mouth, he doesn’t truly realize the blood, sweat, and tears that go into every book I write, the piece of my soul I carve out and leave on the page.
To him, these getaways are mini vacations, a clever way to recharge and find inspiration, to relax and then conveniently come home with a finished story, a new product. He never asks about the agony, only the financials.
I don’t fault him for that. How could I? He loves me, supports me in his own way, and he does, in his own practical Shephard way, understand that writing isn’t easy. But no one can really understand how emotionally draining it is, how utterly consuming, unless they’ve written a book themselves, unless they’ve poured their very essence into something so abstract. It’s not just the hours spent typing away at the keyboard—it’s the aftermath of all that blood, sweat, and tears, and how so many people pick it apart and tell you all that effort was pointless because you’re shit.
And I am. I am a shit human, in more ways than one.
I’m seated on the couch with my legs tucked beneath me, trying to focus on the steady rhythm of my breathing, trying to calm the frantic beating of my heart as the soft glow of the television casts flickering shadows around the room, onto Shephard’s face.
Shephard, completely unaware of the turmoil inside me, moves with his usual ease as he reaches over and grabs one of my ankles, his touch warm and familiar, a practiced gesture. He pulls my leg toward him, gently tugging until I’m lying down, my body stretched out beneath him, just as it has been a thousand times before. But this time, something is different.
Something feels profoundly, irrevocably wrong.
As he crawls on top of me, his body pressing down in a way that should feel comforting, familiar, an insatiable, overwhelming amount of guilt floods my chest. This couch is tainted by what I’ve done with Saint, and now Shephard is crawling on top of me, in the exact position Saint was in a matter of days ago.
The memory of Saint—his hands, his lips, his body—flashes through my mind like an intrusive thought I can’t shake, a vivid, unwelcome
superimposition over Shephard’s face.
He kisses me, his lips soft and familiar against mine, his breath warm, but I can’t lose myself in it the way I should, the way I used to. Every second of the kiss feels like a betrayal in itself, a searing reminder of the
secret I’m keeping from him.
A lie pressed against his mouth.
I know the kiss won’t last long. Shephard is nothing if not predictable in moments like these. He’ll take it to the bedroom before things get too heated, before the passion can truly ignite, as he always does.
He’s a bedroom kind of lover, methodical, careful, almost . . . ritualistic. It’s the way he’s always been, always contained, always planned.
There’s something safe about it, something comforting in its routine, its predictability, but tonight, it feels stifling, like I’m trapped in a script I’ve followed for too long, a play where I no longer remember my lines.
I don’t know that we’ve ever had spontaneous sex on a couch before.
The thought strikes me as odd, considering how long we’ve been together.
Our intimacy has always followed a pattern, a rhythm we both understand, a comfortable dance. There’s never been much room for surprises, for wild abandon, for spontaneity.
And yet, with Saint, everything was raw, unpredictable, charged with a kind of reckless energy I’d never felt before. The contrast between the two men, between the two experiences, is startling, a jarring shift in frequency. I can’t help but compare them in my mind, even though I know it’s wrong, know it’s unfair to Shephard, to our history, to everything we’ve built. But the comparison happens anyway.
“Let’s go to bed,” Shephard says, predictably, his voice soft and full of affection, a familiar invitation. He kisses my forehead before pulling away, leaving just enough space between us to remind me that this is how it’s always been, this careful, controlled distance. I nod, even though my mind is elsewhere, still trapped in the sticky web of lies I’ve spun.
“Okay,” I say, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “I’ll be right there. I have some emails I need to send first.” The lie slips out with scary ease.
“Take your time. I need a shower anyway.” Shephard’s voice is a warm, even murmur laced with a familiar, uncomplicated affection that feels like a heavy blanket draped over my shoulders. He stands up from the couch, stretching his arms over his head with a contented sigh, a soft,
almost purring sound, as if nothing is wrong in the world, as if the unsettling encounter with Saint earlier was merely a quirky interlude.
As if everything is exactly as it should be, perfectly aligned in his predictable, comforting universe. His hand briefly brushes mine as he passes, a faint warmth, before he heads down the hall toward the bedroom.
His footsteps are steady, even, his presence radiating an oblivious sense of comfort. But I can’t take comfort in him tonight. Not now. Not after what I’ve done.
My skin crawls with the memory of it, the scent of him still clinging to me like a phantom perfume.
The bedroom door closes softly, a quiet, almost imperceptible click that echoes like a gunshot in the sudden, cavernous silence of the living room. I wait, holding my breath, straining my ears, listening for the distinct sound of the bathroom door closing behind him. I hear the faintest creak, then the unmistakable whoosh and spray of the shower turning on, a steady, rhythmic rush of water that signals I have time, a precious, stolen window.
Time to do what I shouldn’t. Time to fall deeper into the trap I’ve set for myself, a trap of my own design.
I bypass the laptop entirely, its purpose forgotten, a flimsy lie. My bare feet glide across the cool hardwood as I make my way to the back door, drawn by an invisible, irresistible pull. I unlatch the lock, the click surprisingly loud in the quiet house. I step outside and pull the screen door shut behind me.
The cool night air hits my skin like a slap in the face, sharp and biting, chilling me to the bone, but at the same time waking me up to the raw, treacherous reality of what I’m about to do.
My hands are shaking, a nervous tremor that runs through my entire body, as I pull out my phone, my fingers fumbling clumsily with the screen, almost dropping the device onto the wooden porch. Without hesitation, almost by instinct, I immediately dial Saint’s number, my mind racing, a frantic carousel of emotions: raw anger, piercing guilt, and a flicker of excitement.
He answers on the third ring, a deliberate pause that makes my nerves hum with anticipation. “I figured I’d hear from you before you went to bed.” His voice, when it comes through the line, is maddeningly casual, an easy, almost lazy drawl, as if he’s just woken up from a pleasant nap.
“What the fuck was that?” I snap. The words come out filled with the crushing weight of everything I’m feeling.
“You’re married,” he snaps back, his voice losing its playfulness instantly, turning cold and hard, like tempered steel. There’s no warmth left in his tone now, just an edginess that slices through me, an immediate counterattack. His words are heavy with accusation, laced with judgment, as if he has any right to condemn me, as if he’s not the primary instigator of this entire, devastating mess, the architect of my current torment.
“So are you,” I bite back, my hand tightening around the phone so hard my knuckles ache, pressing the device painfully against my ear. My voice is low, a guttural growl, barely controlled, a raw, strained whisper, as if I’m holding on to the last shred of patience I have, the final, fraying thread of my sanity.
“I never lied about it,” he says, his words cutting through me like a knife, cold and precise. His tone is flat, emotionless, devoid of any inflection, like he’s stating a factual truth that cannot be argued with, an undeniable, inconvenient reality.
And the worst part is, he’s right. He never did lie about being married.
He laid it all out, clear and uncompromising. He never pretended to be something he wasn’t. I was the one who hid, who pretended, who built a fragile facade around my life. The realization is a bitter, metallic taste in my mouth, a self-inflicted wound.
I glance instinctively toward the living room window, my heart racing as I check to make sure Shephard is still in the bathroom, still safely hidden behind the monotonous sound of the running water. I take a deep, shaky breath, steadying myself before I speak, finding a sliver of composure amid the chaos. “I technically didn’t lie about it either,” I say, my voice quieter now, more controlled, laced with a calculated defiance. “You never asked.”
There’s a long, excruciating pause on the other end of the call, the silence stretching out between us like a vast, dark chasm. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, almost a whisper. “Are you going to fuck him tonight?”
The question hits me like a physical punch to the gut, a brutal blow that knocks the air clean out of my lungs, leaving me breathless and reeling, gasping for air. My throat tightens, suddenly constricted, but I feel the chill of arousal build in my stomach. “He’s my goddamn husband, Saint. What do you think?”
How dare he ask that. How dare he make me answer.
“So that’s a no?” The playfulness is back in his voice, instantly, a light, maddening teasing lilt returning, as if he’s pushing me, testing me, seeing how far he can go, how much he can unravel me.
He isn’t mad at all. Not really. This is part of the game to him, a meticulously crafted performance. He’s enjoying this, enjoying my torment, my confusion.
And then, with a jolt of ice-cold clarity, a chilling realization that pierces through the fog of my anger, I realize what he’s doing. Why he showed up here today to meet Shephard. Why he played up the stern, unyielding officer. He’s embodying the very things I wanted Cam to be.
Controlling, possessive, jealous. He’s playing the role I created for him in Reya’s story, the role of Cam, the obsessive, dangerous lover.
And in this moment, consumed by a confusing, terrifying mixture of pure terror and perverse fascination, I hate him for it. And I love him for it.
I hate him for seeing through me, for knowing exactly what buttons to push, for pulling me so relentlessly into the fiction, making it horrifyingly real. He’s not just playing a role; he’s weaponizing my own desires against me.
Showing up at my house today was just him pushing the limits of my experience. He wanted me to know what it felt like to be scared my affair was about to be found out, but he had no desire for Shephard to actually find out.
“You’re making me insane,” I whisper. “I didn’t expect you to take things this far.”
I can almost hear the grin in his words. “Do you want me to stop?”
I think about that for a minute. I think about Shephard. I think about what it would do to him if he found out what I’ve done. What I’m doing.
“Just say the word, Petra. You’ll never see me again if that’s what you need.”
A knot forms in my throat. “No,” I whisper. “I don’t want you to stop.”
“Good,” Saint says. “But if we’re going to continue this, then I need a
favor from you.”
I close my eyes and whisper, “What?”
“When your husband fucks you tonight, get on top and pretend you’re fucking me.”
The call ends after he says that. My mouth is agape. I pull my phone from my ear and stare at it. Then I quickly peek through the window again, not wanting Shephard to see the look that’s spread over my face right now.
The audacity.
The disrespect.
I like it.
I can’t ignore the heat pooling in my stomach. Hearing him talk like that—just like Cam would talk to Reya—makes me want to go straight to my laptop and write another scene.
But it also makes me want to crawl in bed with Shephard and do exactly what Saint said. No matter how hard I try, I just can’t mentally lock Saint out.
