"Don't speak about Julie that way."
The silence between us stretches taut, dangerous.
"You're spying on me?" he finally says, voice low.
"You promised you'd stop gambling."
"I'm trying to fix things!" he shouts. “You have no idea what it’s like to be me, to have to deal with this pressure I’m under.”
And before I can cover my ears, he's thrown thedecorative vase from the side table. It shatters against the wall, shards scattering across our grey shag carpet. It was something I picked up at the thrift store, cheap and of no sentimental value, but still, I'm pissed.
The man needs to control his emotions. I'm speechless, afraid to speak up. I really don't want this scene to escalate.
He storms out, the front door slamming behind him with such force that the glass panes in our bay window rattle.
Through the window, I watch him stomp across our patchy front lawn to his pickup, kicking an empty flowerpot on his way.
He doesn't even look back as he peels out of the driveway, tires spitting gravel that pings against the side of our little yellow house.
The silence he leaves behind is deafening. I sink onto the window seat, my fingers tracing the worn cushion where I used to spend peaceful afternoons reading and drawing before life got so complicated, before money problems and gambling and lies started eating away at everything we'd built together.
Conflicting emotions rage inside me, each one fighting for dominance until I feel physically ill. The weight of everything—Reeves’s outburst, our financial troubles, my own guilt—sits like a stone in my chest, making it hard to breathe. I press my palm against mychest, trying to ease the pressure building there, but it's no use. This isn't something I can contain anymore.
I need to purge these toxic thoughts before they poison me completely. I need someone who will listen without judgment, someone who might help me make sense of the mess my life has become. The silence of our little home presses in on me, emphasizing how utterly alone I feel in this moment.
My fingers trace the edge of the window seat cushion, worn thin in spots from years of use. I used to sit here and dream about our future, about the life Reeves and I would build. Now I'm sitting here wondering if that life is salvageable at all.
I grab my phone and pray to God that Liza is available. As the phone rings, I eagerly await her voice, and when she finally answers, a heavy weight is lifted.
Ten minutes later, we sit on my sectional, Oliver curled between us as I spill everything—the photo session, Caine's confession, the sex, Reeves’s gambling, our crumbling finances.
Liza listens attentively, her expression shifting between deep concern and utter shock as each revelation tumbles from my lips.
She doesn't interrupt once, just nods occasionally, her eyes widening—especially when I tell her what happened in Caine's office and the way my body responded to him despite my guilt.
When I finally fall silent, my throat raw and my eyes burning with unshed tears. She reaches across the worn cushion of my sectional and takes my trembling hands in hers. Her touch is warm and steady, an anchor in the storm I've created.
"I don't even know who I am anymore," I confess.
Liza squeezes my hand gently, her thumb tracing small circles on my palm in that soothing way she's had since I first met her a few years back—we'd clicked instantly—true soul mates. The silence between us isn't awkward; it's the quiet of someone carefully choosing their words.
"Jenna," she says gently, "I think it's time to take a really hard look at your life. Not just your marriage, but what you actually want. What kind of future are you building for yourself and Liam?”
I stare out at the yard through the window where my beautiful stained glass used to be, replaced now with a plain, clear pane, and wonder if anything in my life can ever be fixed.
I stare at my phone for a long time before dialling, my thumb hovering over his number. What am I doing?
I need to talk to him. I need to consider him as not only a lover, but a friend, and perhaps even more. Lizahas been a great confidante, but I ache for him. I can't stop thinking about him.
When Caine answers, my words spill out before I can stop them.
"You've completely messed up my life," I blurt. "Everything was fine before you came along with your money and your... everything."
There's a pause, and I immediately regret my outburst.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "That's not fair. I made my own choices. I'm the one who said yes every step of the way."
"Jenna." His voice comes through the line like a warm blanket, slow and measured. I close my eyes, picturing him on the other end. "You're right to be upset."
