Chapter 5: Will
1836 Words
"I'll kill him," I seethed, and I f*****g meant every word of it. It wasn’t just a goddamn threat—it was a promise. A vow. I would end him for this.
James f*****g Jackson.
The luckiest man alive. The man who, by some cruel twist of fate—because I sure as hell didn’t understand how—had managed to tie Cora down. The man who had everything a person could ever want, yet somehow, it still wasn’t enough for him.
Just like she said—she did everything for him.
And every other man out there, every single one, would look at their marriage, look at her, and think: God, if only I could have that.
Because she was right. She was the perfect f*****g wife.
She cooked. She cleaned. She did his goddamn laundry. She was there for him, made sure he felt loved, cherished, wanted. Every step of the way, she put him first. And now, to hear that she never even said no—that she had never denied him anything, never made him feel like he lacked a goddamn thing—something inside me twisted into a vicious, burning knot.
It only confirmed what I had known from the very beginning.
James was an i***t.
The biggest jackass on the whole goddamn planet.
How dare he make Cora feel like this?
I had known something was wrong the second she showed up at the door.
The relief in her eyes when she saw me. The way she collapsed into my arms, shaking, barely holding herself together. The way she clung to me like I was the only thing keeping her from falling apart completely.
I should have known.
He was always the reason.
Every time he f****d up—which he did a lot—she came here.
Sometimes she’d be crying. Sometimes she just needed space. Other times, she would sit across from me, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeves, whispering questions like What should I do? How do I fix this? What am I doing wrong?
And every time, as her brother’s best friend—and definitely not a man who had been madly in love with her for years—I told her to dump his ass.
Which would only make her laugh.
She’d shake her head, tell me I can’t, Will, and then—just like that—she’d go right back to him.
Right back into his f*****g arms.
I looked into those gorgeous hazel eyes, the ones that had always told me everything I needed to know, long before she ever spoke a word.
Cora’s eyes were so goddamn expressive it hurt sometimes.
"You can’t," she whispered, her voice raw from crying—screaming—into my shoulder for well over two hours.
I clenched my jaw, rage pulsing through every inch of me. If only she was mine. She would never have to know what heartbreak felt like. She would never have to question her worth, never have to beg a man to choose her, to love her the way she deserved.
If she were mine, I would make her happy. I would give her everything she ever wanted. I would buy her a house—not too far from the city, but not too close either. A home that felt safe, warm, ours. It would have plenty of rooms for the family she wanted, a kitchen big enough for her to bake until her heart was content, and a backyard meant for barbecues and late summer nights.
We would have kids—our kids—running around, laughing, playing in the grass, chasing fireflies.
I would marry her. Give her the wedding she actually deserved. Not the rushed, half-assed event she got with him, but something beautiful. Something that made her feel like the most loved, wanted woman in the world.
I would give her my last name. Cora Taylor. So much better than Cora Jackson.
And I would take her away—just us—on our honeymoon. Maybe to France, where she could eat pastries all day long, grinning like a kid as she stuffed another bite of croissant into her mouth. And at night, I would make love to her, slow and deep, whispering how beautiful she was, how much I loved her, how I would spend the rest of my life proving it.
Because I would.
I would love her the way she was meant to be loved.
I swallowed hard, shoving those thoughts away. Because none of that mattered. Because, no matter how much I wanted her, no matter how deeply my soul ached for her, the reality was that she didn’t belong to me.
She belonged to him. And the worst part? She still loved him.
“I love him, Will,” she whispered, her voice tinged with something almost like shame. Like she knew she shouldn’t say it. Like she knew it made no sense, that she was only hurting herself more.
And yet—she couldn’t stop.
She was holding onto what she knew. She was holding onto him.
I clenched my fists, forcing down the bitter words sitting on my tongue, my jaw so tight I thought it might snap.
“I know you do, Cora,” I murmured, my voice rough, thick with everything I couldn’t say.
I exhaled sharply, letting my head drop for just a second before lifting it again, my gaze locking onto hers.
"I know you do."
And she did a f*****g great job at it. She gave everything to him—her love, her devotion, her unwavering support. And yet, somehow, it still wasn’t enough for him.
He was a monumental asshole for making her feel like this, for making her believe that her light, her love, her touch wasn’t enough.
Her bottom lip quivered again as she looked down at her hands, watching how her fingers absentmindedly twisted in the fabric of my shirt. And even though I hated seeing her so goddamn heartbroken, there was a tiny, selfish part of me that couldn’t stop focusing on the fact that she was sitting in my lap. That her warm, soft body was pressed against mine. That her fingers—small and delicate—were skimming over the ridges of my torso that were right beneath my shirt.
I swallowed hard, pushing those thoughts away.
"Come here," I murmured, pulling her back against me before I could stop myself.
She didn’t hesitate.
She crashed into me, tucking her head under my chin as if she were trying to disappear inside me, trying to crawl into my very bones. I wrapped my arms around her, holding her as tightly as I could, hoping that somehow, somehow, I could take away even a fraction of her pain.
I loved holding her like this.
Loved the warmth radiating from her body.
Loved how perfectly she fit against me.
Loved her.
"Why did you tell him it was okay?" I asked after a long moment, my voice quieter now, softer. But still filled with frustration—frustration that she was hurting because of this, because of him.
Because she was right—this was nothing but an excuse for him to cheat without consequence.
"I don’t know," she whispered, her hands tightening in the fabric of my shirt like she was holding on for dear life. "I just… I can’t f**k this up, Will. He’s my husband. I should try to make it work. And if he wants to sleep around, then… maybe I should just let him."
Jesus f*****g Christ.
"You shouldn’t let him do something like that, Cora," I shot back instantly, my voice sharper than I intended.
Her head lifted slightly, her hazel eyes locking onto mine, searching.
And f**k, the hope I saw in them nearly destroyed me.
"You’re absolutely perfect," I continued, my voice rough with the truth of it. "The perfect wife. The perfect partner. The perfect everything. If he can’t see that, then he sure as hell doesn’t deserve you. He’s being stupid. Immature. And frankly—" I let out a bitter scoff, shaking my head as my chest burned with anger, "maybe it’s a good thing you’re not having a baby with him. I mean, look at this. Look at you."
I gestured at her, at the way she was curled up in my lap, wrecked because of him. Because of the man she thought she loved.
"You should be with a man who worships every inch of you. Someone who makes you feel loved and appreciated—not just when he feels like it, but when you need it. Every goddamn day."
Her lips parted slightly, and for a second, she just stared at me, her expression unreadable.
Then—slowly—a small smile appeared.
But it was wrong. It didn’t reach her eyes. And that f*****g killed me. Because I lived for her real smiles. The unhinged ones, the wild ones, the ones that came with her beautiful, melodic laughter. The ones that lit up her entire face, made her eyes shimmer, made my chest feel tight in the best f*****g way.
Those were the smiles that made my entire body hum.
And this?
This wasn’t one of them.
"Easier said than done, Will," she sighed.
Her gaze dropped, her lashes brushing against her cheeks, and she shook her head slightly.
"Those men don’t exist."
I clenched my jaw, biting back the words I do.
Instead, I just held her tighter.
She let out a deep breath, her body relaxing slightly as she nestled further into me, as if she belonged there.
"Can you just hold me for a little longer?" she asked, her voice small. "It feels nice."
I didn’t hesitate.
My arms tightened around her instantly, my chin resting on the top of her head as I let my eyes slip closed.
Vanilla.
She always smelled like vanilla.
I inhaled deeply, letting the scent of her wash over me, feeling the steady rise and fall of her back, feeling the warmth of her seeping into my skin.
And for the first time that night—hell, maybe the first time in years—my body actually relaxed.
Her breathing was steady. Soft. Almost therapeutic. And before I even realized what was happening, my own breathing synced with hers, my mind drifting, my body giving in to exhaustion.
I fell asleep.
In the most awkward, backbreaking position imaginable.
But even as I felt my body screaming at me to move, I couldn’t bear the thought of letting her go. Because in that moment, with Cora in my arms, curled up against me, trusting me to hold her together—
I felt like her protector.
Like her safe place.
Like her hero.
And damn if that wasn’t a feeling I had missed terribly.
- Writer
