My Husband's Rival Wants Me

The weight of wanting both.

Aria

The morning after, the study door stayed locked between us, Adrian was already in the kitchen when I came downstairs. He hadn’t left for the office. That alone felt like an intrusion.

He stood at the island in a gray T-shirt and sweatpants, hair still damp from the shower, flipping eggs in a pan like this was normal. Like last night hadn’t happened. The smell of coffee and butter filled the air, too domestic, too presumptuous

“Good morning,” he said without turning around.

I stopped in the doorway. My throat felt raw from crying. “You’re still here.”

“I called in late.” He slid the eggs onto two plates, added toast, set one in front of the stool across from him. “Sit. Eat something.”

I didn’t move. “I’m not hungry.”

“Please.” His voice cracked on the word. He looked up then, his eyes were red-rimmed, shadows under them. “I haven’t slept. I just… I need to see you eat. See you okay. Even if it’s only for five minutes.”

I stared at the plate. The eggs were warm, perfectly scrambled the way I liked them. He remembered. That small detail only made the anger sharper.

“I don’t want your eggs,” I said flatly. “I don’t want your apologies. And I don’t want you trying to play house like nothing happened.”

He flinched. The pan clattered as he set it down. “Aria—”

“No.” I cut him off. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to f**k her on your desk and then come home with breakfast and expect me to pretend it’s fine. You don’t get to beg through a locked door and then act like the good husband the next day.”

His hands braced on the counter, his knuckles white. “It was a mistake. She showed up. I was angry, at myself, at us, at everything. I was weak. I know that. But I ended it. Last night, after you locked the door, I called her. Told her it was over. I blocked her, I deleted everything. I swear.”

I laughed once, cold and short. “You’ve sworn a lot of things since we got married.”

He stepped around the island, reaching for me. I backed up until my spine hit the doorway.

“Don’t,” I said.

He stopped, his arms dropped. “I love you. I know I haven’t shown it. I know I’ve been distant, selfish, cruel. But I love you. And I’m trying to fix this.”

“You’re trying to fix your guilt,” I corrected. “Not us.”

Silence stretched between us.

He swallowed hard. “Then tell me what to do. Tell me how to make this right. I’ll do anything.”

I looked at him, really looked. The man who’d held me through the night was still there, buried under layers of excuses and weakness, but the man who’d been inside Olivia while I was out walking was there too. And right now, the second one was louder.

“There’s nothing you can do,” I said quietly. “Because every time I look at you, I’ll see her on her knees. I’ll see your hand in her hair. I’ll see the moment you saw me and still didn’t stop until it was too late.”

His face crumpled. “I stopped the second I saw you.”

“Not soon enough.”

I turned and walked back toward the bedroom.

“Aria, wait.” His voice followed me. “Please. Let’s talk. Let me—”

I closed the door. Locked it. Leaned against it and slid to the floor.

On the other side, he didn’t pound. Didn’t beg like last night. He just stood there. I could hear his breathing, uneven and ragged.

After a long minute, he spoke, softer. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll wait out here if that’s what you need. All day, all week. However long it takes.”

I pressed my forehead to my knees. Tears came again, silent this time. Not from pain, but from the exhaustion of wanting to believe him and knowing I couldn’t.

He stayed outside the door for over an hour. Eventually his footsteps retreated. The penthouse went quiet again.

I didn’t come out until late afternoon.

When I finally opened the door, he was sitting on the couch in the living room with his elbows on knees, and his head in hands. He looked up the second he heard me.

He stood slowly. “I canceled everything today. Tomorrow too. I’m not leaving until we figure this out.”

I crossed my arms. “There’s nothing to figure out.”

“There is.” He took a careful step closer. “I f****d up badly. I know that. But I’m not walking away from my marriage, from you. I can’t.”

“You already did,” I said. “The moment you let her in your heart.”

He winced. “I know. And I hate myself for it. But I’m asking, begging, for a chance to prove I can be better. Not perfect. Just better.”

I studied his face. The remorse looked real. The fear looked real. But so was the pleasure on his face when I walked into the study.

“I don’t trust you,” I said simply.

The words landed like a slap and he recoiled slightly, then nodded. “Fair. I haven’t earned it. But I’m going to keep trying anyway. Every day. Until you tell me to stop.”

I didn’t answer.

He didn’t push further. He just went back to the couch and sat, head bowed, waiting.

The rest of the day passed in tense silence.

He ordered dinner from my favorite Thai place, and left the containers on the counter without comment. I ate alone in the bedroom. He didn’t knock. Didn’t ask to join me.

That night I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. My phone buzzed once on the nightstand.

Unknown number.

A photo of me and Nikolas in the hallway at the gala with his hand on my waist, my lips parted, and eyes half-closed in surrender.

The caption: *Some choices follow you.*

My heart slammed against my ribs and I deleted the message, then stared at the blank screen.

Adrian was still on the couch when I crept out for water at 2 a.m. He was asleep, head tipped back, one arm dangling. He looked smaller somehow. More human.

I stood there for a long moment, watching him breathe.

Part of me wanted to shake him awake. To scream. To demand answers. To see if he’d still look at me the way he used to, before Olivia, before the distance, before the study.

Another par, the louder part wanted to walk past him, out the door, and keep walking until I found Nikolas.

I did neither.

I filled my glass and went back to bed.

The next morning Adrian was already up, making coffee. He didn’t smile when I walked in. Just poured a mug and slid it toward me.

“I’m not going to push,” he said quietly. “But I’m not leaving either. I’ll be here when you’re ready to talk. Or when you’re ready to tell me to go.”

I took the coffee silently.

He nodded once, like he expected nothing else, and went to his office.

I sat at the island alone, staring at the mug.

The silence between us felt heavier than any fight.

And somewhere in the city, Nikolas was waiting.

I didn’t text him.

But I didn’t delete his number either.