Chapter 4
The next three days, the house felt like a tomb.
Andrew went to work. He came home. I got up. I went to bed.
We shared the same bed but may as well have been on different planets.
When he reached for me, I rolled away. When he talked, I put my headphones on.
On the fourth night, Andrew finally couldn't hold back any longer.
I was in the study, reviewing the project summary David had sent me. It was classified at the highest national security level, focused on aerospace materials research.
If I joined, my name, identity, and everything about my past would be locked away, erased from public record.
"What are you looking at?"
Andrew's voice drifted in from the doorway.
I closed my laptop and looked up at him.
He was in comfy clothes, his hair still damp—must've just gotten out of the shower.
He smelled faintly of the same woody body wash I used.
But now, that familiar scent just felt ironic.
"Nothing," I said.
He walked over and leaned against the desk, looking down at me.
That angle used to make my heart skip a beat, but now it just felt oppressive.
"Emily," his voice softened, "can we stop the silent treatment?"
I said nothing.
"I know you're angry," he said, reaching out to touch my face, but I turned away. "But what's done is done. We have to move forward. I promise, I'll spend less time at that place and be home with you more, okay?"
"That place?" I laughed, bitterly. "So you're finally calling it what it is?"
His expression froze.
"I mean—"
"Don't bother," I cut him off. "Just answer me one thing, Andrew.
He stared at me.
"Do you love her?"
Dead silence.
The only sound in the study was the ticking of the wall clock. Each second landed like a punch.
After what felt like forever, Andrew finally spoke, his voice rough.
"Emily, it's different."
"Different how?"
"With you, it's love," he said, his eyes tangled with emotion. "With her, it's just... novelty. Excitement. It's like eating gourmet food every day—sometimes you just want something plain. She could never replace you. You're my wife. You're who I want."
Listening to him, I suddenly found it all so ridiculous.
"So cheating isn't betrayal," I said slowly. "It's just variety."
"That's not what I'm saying—"
"Then what is it?" I stood up, locking eyes with him. "Andrew, what is marriage? It's a commitment. It's a promise to choose each other. And you're telling me you kept someone on the side for a little change of taste, and I'm supposed to just... live with that?"
"What do you want me to do!" he shot back, his voice getting louder. "I came back to you! I drove her away for you! But she tried to kill herself! There was blood everywhere! What was I supposed to do—just stand there and watch her die?"
I stared at him, in disbelief.
At his flushed face. At the righteous fury in his eyes.
That was the moment it hit me.
This was never really about her.
At the core, we just saw marriage completely differently.
"So," I breathed, barely louder than a whisper. "It's not because you love her.
"And it's not because you don't love me anymore. It's just that you want to have your cake and eat it too—a stable home and your flings on the side. And on top of that, you wanted your wife to be understanding. Grateful, even, for the sacrifices you were making for this family."
His face darkened.
"Emily, don't make it sound so harsh."
"Harsh?" I laughed, bitter. "Andrew, the truth always sounds harsh. You called her a stray—remember that? That's exactly how you see both of us. I'm the prized pet you keep at home. She's the one you visit on the side.
"And pets don't get to argue with their owners, do they? The owner feeds you, pets you, and you're supposed to be grateful. Even if the owner goes out to pet other animals, you're expected to wag your tail and say, 'As long as the owner's happy, that's all that matters.'"