Katrina catches my eye as I pass her, and I see the question there:Are you okay?
I'm not. I'm so far from fucking okay I can't even describe what it looks like.
I don't have the energy to fall apart again; I really don’t.
I close the guest room door behind me and sit on the edge of the bed, staring at Mila's message until the words blur.
If you ever want to hear my side.
Her side. Like there are two valid perspectives here. Like she's the victim in this story.
I should delete it and block her number.
But the doubt is already there, haunting me.
What if Devon's still lying? What if there's more he hasn't told me?
What if Mila knows something I don't?
I turn off my phone and lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
I’ve suggested therapy because I believe my husband, even against my better judgement. Mila is a nasty piece of work, so I know how far she will go to destroy me. It’s like it’s her aim in life, as horrible as it is to admit. She really does fucking hate me.
Even so, Mila's words echo in my mind.
My side of what happened that night.
And I wonder if I'll ever really know the truth.
Chapter Twenty
DEVON
I’m at work. It feels more like my home than our house does now.
Our house—Jade.
It’s been two weeks since we started therapy. Two weeks of hard conversations and silences and sleeping in the same bed again but not touching. Two weeks of trying to prove I'm the man Jade married, not the one who broke her.
I stop halfway down the staff corridor, staring at the scheduling board in disbelief.
I can’t believe what I’m seeing—is this some kind of sick joke? I feel like every time Jade and I take one step forward, we fall ten steps back.
My fists clench and my teeth grit together.
I stare at the words until they blur.
Studio 2 — Mila Harris — Hot Vinyasa Yoga
I feel sick.
No. No fucking way. Mila? HERE?
I pull out my phone, checking my blocked contacts. She's still there—her number, grayed out and inaccessible. I blocked her the night Jade left. I was so sure it was over.
"Hey, Locke." Ray waves at me from the weight floor. "You good? You look like you've seen a ghost."
I know he’s a client, but my face feels numb, like I can’t move it into an appropriate expression to support my lie. Somehow, I say; “All good. Just tired."
