I pull her close, pressing my face into her hair, breathing her in. She smells like vanilla and home, and for the first time in weeks, I relax.
It's almost midnight when my phone buzzes.
Jade is asleep beside me, her breathing slow and even, one hand curled against my chest. I reach for the phone carefully, not wanting to wake her.
Unknown number.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
UNKNOWN: I hope you're happy now. I got arrested. But I got bail! Are you satisfied? Is she?
I stare at the screen, waiting for the familiar dread to wash over me, but it doesn't come.
Another message arrives.
UNKNOWN: This isn't over, Devon. It will never be over. You wanted me.
I read the words, and I feel... nothing.
No fear or guilt. No desperate urge to fix something that was never mine to fix.
Mila is still out there, unraveling at a dangerous pace. She’s still convinced that one drunken kiss in a New York hotel room meant something it didn't. That we had sex, for Christ’s sake!
But she's not my problem anymore.
She's notourproblem anymore.
I screenshot the messages—documentation, always documentation—and then I block the number. Add it to the folder and note the timestamp in the log.
Then I set the phone on the nightstand and turn back to my wife.
"I love you," I whisper.
She doesn't wake, but she shifts closer, her body finding mine in the dark.
I’m so fucking grateful for this woman, and nothing will take her away from me.
Ever.
Chapter Thirty-Five
JADE
The mirror doesn't scare me this morning.
I stand in our bathroom, steam still curling from the shower, and I look at myself without hate. The woman staring back has tired eyes and messy hair, and a body that will never grace a perfect yoga Instagram. Her stomach folds where she bends. Her face is round in ways that used to make her cry.
But she's still here.
I press my palm against the glass, feeling the condensation cool against my skin. For years, I've avoided this—really seeing myself. I'd catch glimpses and look away, listing flaws, hearing Mila's voice whispering all the reasons I wasn't enough for Devon.
Today, her voice is quiet.
Thank fuck.
I hear Devon moving around downstairs: the clink of coffee mugs, the soft thud of the refrigerator door. Normal sounds. Our sounds. I’ve missed this.
When I finally pull on clothes and head down, he's at the kitchen table, his expression unreadable.
