The woman in the mirror looks destroyed. Puffy eyes. Blotchy skin. Hair that hasn't been washed in days. My shirt pulls across my stomach in a way that makes me want to tear it off.
Too hot for her.
I grip the edge of the sink and squeeze my eyes shut.
Thisis what Mila wanted—for the public to join her shit-smearing campaign against me. For me to stand here and look at every flaw and every reason Devon might have wanted something different. She's been doing this to me since we were teenagers—making me feel like shit.
And the pregnancy claim.God, the pregnancy claim.
I've been trying so hard not to think about it. About what it would mean if it were true.
But it’s not. Iknowit’s not. It’s all part of her sick game.
Maybe sheispregnant. Even though she’s lying—the babyisn'tDevon's—she gets to use motherhood as a weapon against me because she knows I don’t have it.
A sob rises from somewhere deep inside, and I let it come. I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the cold tile, my knees pulled to my chest, and I cry.
For the body that feels like a shoddy state of affairs. For the marriage I almost lost and mightstillbe losing. For the eighteen-year-old girl who let Mila Harris make her feel worthless and never told anyone.
I cry until my throat is raw and my eyes burn, and there's nothing left inside me.
Then I hear Devon's voice through the door, soft and worried: "Jade? Tea's ready whenever you want it."
I wipe my face with the back of my hand and stare at the ceiling.
Milawantsme broken. She wants me to crumble from my insecurity, to prove what she's believed all along—that I don't deserve Devon, or happiness, and don't deserve to exist, full stop.
But I'm still here.
I survived her in high school. I survived my husband kissing her in her hotel room. I survived the confession, the lies, and the therapy.
She doesn't get to win this.
I push myself off the floor and splash cold water on my face. The woman in the mirror still looks wrecked, but there's something in her eyes that wasn't there before.
Determination.
I unlock the door and find Devon in the hallway, two mugs of tea in his hands, his face creased with concern.
"I'm okay," I tell him. It's not true, but I’m closer than I was ten minutes ago.
"You don't have to be."
"I know." I take one mug and wrap my hands around it. "But I'm choosing to be. Because she doesn't get to define me. Not my body, not my marriage—nothing.”
Devon sets down his mug and cups my face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the last traces of tears.
"You are the strongest person I know," he says. "And I will spend the rest of my life proving I deserve you. Even if you never forgive me completely. Even if we can't—" He stops himself.
"Can't what?"
His eyes are wet. "Have kids. If it never happens, Jade, I need you to know—youareenough. You have always been enough. With or without a baby.”
I gaze at him, my husband, the man I love. The man I’ve always loved.
"We're going to get through this," I respond. “Aren’t we?”
“Yes, baby.” Devon pulls me against him, and I let the mug of tea rest between us, its heat radiating through my shirt. I close my eyes and don’t correct him for calling me that.
