Chapter three : Scarlett Hayes

The silence in the car stretched like a wire between us—tight and threatening to snap. I didn't say a word. Neither did he. But I could feel the tension seething off Adrian like heat.

As soon as we stepped through the door, I bent to slip off my heels. My toes ached. My earrings were next, unclasped with tired fingers. I had just reached for the zipper at the back of my dress when I heard his steps—fast, sharp—right behind me.

Before I could turn, his hands grabbed my arms and shoved me backward. I stumbled onto the bed, landing hard. The back of my head nearly struck the bed frame. I blinked, disoriented, my breath catching in my throat.

He was breathing heavily. Eyes wild. Jaw clenched.

“What the hell was that?” His voice was low, trembling with fury. " How dare he talk to you"

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t and I didn't know.

His name echoed in my mind. The man in the mirror. The smile. The touch.

I sat up slowly, bracing myself. But Adrian was already pulling at the buttons of his shirt—ripping them open like they were suffocating him. He didn’t even take off his watch. He reached for the light and plunged the room into darkness.

Then he climbed onto the bed.

My body went rigid. I wasn’t scared. Not exactly. I was used to this. The sudden turns. The nights that started with silence and ended in something I didn’t consent to but never had the energy to fight.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just lay there, staring into the dark, counting my own breaths.

One.

Two.

Three.

The weight of him wasn’t what crushed me. It was everything else. The life I once wanted. The promises that rotted with time.

Four years of marriage, and this was what remained.

The room was still. The world was quiet. But inside me, something cracked a little more.

He never noticed. He never asked. He never cared.

And maybe… maybe that’s when I realized I wasn’t numb anymore.

I was angry.

And maybe that was a start.

The sun rose like it always did.

And like I always did, I was up before it could warm the windows.

The kitchen smelled like eggs and toast. The coffee brewed with its familiar bitterness. My steps were slow—each one a reminder of the night before. I winced as I leaned over the counter, the ache settling in my bones like old weather.

Adrian came downstairs, perfectly dressed. Not a word. Not even a glance. He ate in silence, the toast crunching under his teeth while the coffee vanished down his throat in practiced gulps. He didn’t notice the way I limped, didn’t see how I kept shifting on my feet to avoid the pain.

He never noticed anything.

“Don’t forget dinner with Carter this weekend,” he said as he grabbed his coat.

I nodded.

Then he was gone.

No kiss. No goodbye. Just the sound of the door clicking shut, like always.

And I was left in the echo of our perfect, broken routine.

I grabbed the mop and bucket like a reflex—like my body knew what to do even when my mind was elsewhere. The tiles were spotless, but I cleaned them anyway.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

But my thoughts weren’t in the kitchen.

They were in the restroom.

With him.That smile.

God, that smile.

The way his eyes met mine in the mirror like he already knew me—like he saw right through the painted face and pressed dress and caught something I didn’t even know still existed.

His touch had barely lasted seconds. Just a zip. Just a graze of his fingertips against my back.

But it burned. Still. It left trails of fire beneath my skin, like he had branded me with something dangerous.

I didn’t know his name.

Didn’t know where he came from or why he looked at me like that.

But I remembered the way his voice sounded when he said, “Let me help you.” Low. Smooth. Not kind. Not cruel. Just… certain.

I had goosebumps now, just remembering.

And then—reality struck, cold and sharp.

I was married.

To Adrian.

Adrian, who hadn’t touched me with care in years. Adrian, who hadn’t asked if I was okay. Who hadn’t wondered what I wanted. Who saw me every day and never looked.

I dropped the mop with a small thud. My fingers curled tightly around the counter.

What was I doing?

What was I thinking?

I was a wife. Bound in vows and diamond rings and lifeless routines.

And yet…

Why did a stranger’s gaze feel more intimate than four years of marriage?

Why did my heart race remembering him… when it barely beat beside Adrian?

I pressed my hand to my chest. My breath came out shaky.

This wasn’t me.

Or maybe—this was me.

The girl I buried long ago. The one who once dreamed of love. Of tenderness. Of something real.

And maybe she had stirred last night.

For the first time in forever… she was awake.

Dinner was ready by seven.

Nothing fancy. Just enough.

The soup simmered gently on the stove, steam curling like ghosts. The roasted chicken sat perfectly on the plate, golden and warm. The vegetables were seasoned with care, out of habit more than love.

I had already showered, wrapped myself in the warmest towel I could find, and let the water rinse off everything it could—pain, ache, memory. But the weight remained.

Now, curled up on the couch in an oversized tee, I let a soft show play in the background. Some sitcom I’d seen before. The laugh track felt distant, like it belonged to someone else’s life.

The front door creaked open.

I straightened.

Footsteps.

I was on my feet before I even thought about it, already moving toward the kitchen. The shift was automatic. Learned.

He followed. Not a word.

He sat down at the table, scrolling through his phone while I served the food. My hands moved quickly—plates, spoons, napkins. I didn’t look at him. He didn’t look at me.

We ate in silence.

The clink of cutlery was the only sound between us.

I glanced up once. His brow was furrowed, like always. Focused. Distant. Married to everything but me.

I cleared my throat gently. “The Carter event is this weekend, right?”

He didn’t look up. “Yes. Saturday evening.”

Another pause.

Silence.

Back to chewing.

That was it. That was our conversation for the night. One question, one answer, one quiet gulp of water. I watched him for a moment longer, searching his face for something familiar—some flicker of the man I married.

But he was just… Adrian now.

Not mine. Not really.

I looked down at my plate, the food suddenly cold.

I had fed him. Cleaned the house. Wore the dress. Played the role.

And still invisible.

The dinner plates sat half-empty between us. My fork scraped across porcelain, chasing a piece of carrot I wasn’t going to eat. I’d been chewing the same thought for minutes now, and finally, it pushed its way out.

“That man…” I said quietly, my voice barely above a hum. “The one from the ballroom. The one who came up to you… who was he?”

For the first time all evening, Adrian looked up from his food. His jaw stiffened. His eyes, wide for a brief moment, flickered with something unfamiliar—panic? rage?

“An old friend,” he said, far too fast.

“No, he isn’t.” My voice was firmer this time, surprising even me. “I saw the way you looked at him.”

His spoon clattered sharply against the plate as he threw it down. “Mind your own damn business.”

My throat tightened, but I didn’t stop. “I’m your wife, Adrian. I have the right to know.”

He stood slowly, his fists clenched at his sides. “Damien,” he said, jaw locked. “His name is Damien. And he’s not a friend. He’s my worst goddamn enemy.”

His voice was low, dangerous, like the rumble before a storm. I sat still, heart pounding in my ribs, my hands frozen over the table. His grip on the fork was so tight, his knuckles turned white.

Damien.

So that’s his name.

The rest of the night unraveled quickly. He barely touched the food again. Didn’t speak another word to me. He went to bed early, but not quietly. Slammed the bedroom door. Yelled from the other side about how I should’ve kept my mouth shut. How I was prying where I didn’t belong. How I was lucky he hadn’t done worse.

I just stood in the hallway, holding my breath like it might keep the tears down.

Later, I lay beside him, still and small, the gap between us a canyon.

He was asleep. Breathing heavy. Angry even in his rest.

I stared at the ceiling.

I wanted to cry. God, I wanted to.

But what good would it do?

Crying didn’t change anything. It didn’t soften his voice, or the way he looked at me. It didn’t bring back the girl I used to be. It didn’t stop my heart from aching for a man whose name I’d only just learned.

No.

Tears were useless now.

So I didn’t cry.

I just lay there in the dark, quiet and awake, while my husband dreamed, and Damien's name echoed in my head like a secret I wasn't supposed to find.

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