Chapter 10
1731 Words
Summer’s POV
It was almost terrifying how clear everything suddenly looked.
For months, I’d convinced myself that I was asking for too much.
That marriage was difficult.
That every couple struggled.
That long work hours explained the missed dinners.
That exhaustion explained the forgotten promises.
That stress explained the emotional distance.
Every excuse had sounded reasonable when I loved him enough to believe it.
Now, every excuse sounded exactly like what it had always been.
An excuse.
Ethan sighed heavily, breaking the silence.
“Say something.”
I looked at him.
“I am.”
“No, you’re judging me.”
“I am.”
“I told you it was a mistake.”
“You did.”
“I’ve apologized.”
“No.”
His brows drew together.
“I just did.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“You explained.”
“Those aren’t the same thing.”
His jaw tightened.
“I said I made a mistake.”
“You said Natasha kissed you.”
“You said I misunderstood.”
“You said I arrived at the wrong moment.”
“You said you were stressed.”
“You said you’d sacrificed everything.”
I held his gaze.
“You’ve said a lot of things.”
“But you still haven’t actually said…”
I swallowed the ache rising in my throat.
“…‘I’m sorry I hurt you.’”
Silence.
Real silence.
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
For the first time since I’d walked through the door…
He looked unsure.
“You know I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
There it was again.
Almost.
But not quite.
“You still can’t say it.”
His frustration began creeping back.
“What difference does the wording make?”
“It makes all the difference.”
I laughed softly, though there wasn’t an ounce of humor in it.
“Do you know what hurts the most?”
He didn’t answer.
“It isn’t even the kiss anymore.”
His eyes searched mine.
“It’s this.”
I gestured between us.
“This conversation.”
“The fact that you’re more interested in convincing me not to be upset than understanding why I am.”
“I understand.”
“No.”
“You don’t.”
“I do.”
“You don’t.”
I took a slow breath.
“If you understood…”
My voice trembled despite my best efforts.
“…you wouldn’t have spent the last fifteen minutes telling me how difficult yesterday was for you.”
His face hardened again.
“So I’m not allowed to tell you how I feel?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“It certainly sounds like it.”
I rubbed my temples.
“This isn’t about whether you’re allowed to have feelings, Ethan.”
“Then what is it about?”
“It’s about accountability.”
His expression shifted.
Almost defensively.
“I’ve taken accountability.”
“No.”
“You’ve taken responsibility for getting caught.”
The words landed harder than I’d intended.
His face fell.
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?”
“I came home.”
“You came home because your flight landed.”
“I waited for you.”
“You waited because it was our anniversary.”
“I called you.”
“After I saw you kissing someone else.”
His lips parted.
Nothing came out.
I continued before he could recover.
“If I hadn’t walked into that airport when I did…”
I tilted my head.
“…would you have told me?”
His silence answered before he ever could.
I nodded slowly.
“I thought so.”
He finally looked away.
“It wouldn’t have happened again.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“You can’t.”
“I love you.”
I closed my eyes for a brief second.
Those three words.
Once upon a time…
They would’ve fixed everything.
Now…
They felt strangely empty.
“I used to believe that.”
His head snapped toward me.
“What does that mean?”
“It means…”
I looked around the house we’d built together.
The framed wedding photographs.
The furniture we’d argued over for weeks before buying.
The life we’d spent years creating.
“I don’t know when love stopped being enough.”
His voice became quieter.
“It doesn’t have to stop.”
“It already has.”
The sentence escaped before I could soften it.
His face lost color.
“What?”
I hadn’t planned to say it.
Not like that.
But once the truth was out…
There was no putting it back.
“I’ve been thinking since yesterday.”
I clasped my hands together to stop them trembling.
“I’ve thought about the airport.”
“I’ve thought about us.”
“I’ve thought about who I’ve become.”
I smiled sadly.
“I barely recognized myself this morning.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying…”
I inhaled deeply.
“…I can’t keep doing this.”
“You can.”
“I can’t.”
“We can fix it.”
“I don’t want to fix it.”
The words echoed through the room.
He stared at me.
As if I’d spoken another language.
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
“No.”
His head shook immediately.
“You’re angry.”
“I am.”
“You’re hurt.”
“I am.”
“You’re making decisions based on emotion.”
I smiled faintly.
“No.”
“I made this decision after finally listening to myself.”
He laughed once.
Disbelieving.
“So that’s it?”
I nodded.
“That’s it.”
“You don’t even want counseling?”
“No.”
“You won’t even try?”
“I have.”
“When?”
“For months.”
“Every conversation.”
“Every compromise.”
“Every time I convinced myself tomorrow would be different.”
“I’ve been trying for longer than you realize.”
His breathing grew uneven.
“Summer…”
My heart broke a little hearing him say my name.
Not because I wanted to stay.
Because I wished things had never reached this point.
“I want a divorce.”
The room fell completely silent.
Even the ticking clock in the living room suddenly seemed louder.
Ethan didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe.
He simply stared at me.
“…What?”
“I want a divorce.”
The words sounded steadier the second time.
“No.”
His answer came instantly.
“No.”
He laughed under his breath.
“No.”
As if repeating it enough times would erase what I’d said.
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
“No.”
He stepped closer.
“We’re not getting divorced.”
I looked at him quietly.
“That’s not your decision to make.”
“It absolutely is.”
His voice rose.
“We’re married.”
“We made vows.”
“I know.”
“You don’t just throw those away.”
“I didn’t.”
His expression twisted.
“One mistake.”
“There it is again.”
“One mistake.”
He pointed at himself.
“One.”
“And suddenly our marriage is over?”
“Our marriage didn’t end because of one kiss.”
“It ended because of everything that came before it.”
He ignored that completely.
“We’re not doing this.”
“We are.”
“No.”
He shook his head harder.
“I won’t allow it.”
Something about those words settled over me like ice.
“I won’t allow it.”
Not…
“Can we talk?”
Not…
“Can we work this out?”
Allow.
As though I needed permission to leave.
As though I belonged to him.
He paced across the room, dragging both hands through his hair.
“Do you have any idea what people will say?”
I frowned.
“What?”
“My parents.”
He turned toward me.
“My family.”
“My colleagues.”
“The board.”
His voice became increasingly frantic.
“Everyone knows we’re married.”
“What happens when they find out my wife left me?”
I stared at him.
Unable to believe what I was hearing.
“My reputation…”
He laughed bitterly.
“…do you know what this will do to it?”
I blinked.
Slowly.
“I’ve spent years building respect.”
“My family name matters.”
“The company.”
“Our friends.”
“The media could get hold of it.”
“What are people supposed to think?”
I couldn’t stop staring.
He was worried.
Not about losing me.
About appearances.
About headlines.
About whispers.
About dinner conversations.
About his last name.
He looked at me expectantly.
As though surely I’d understand.
As though his reputation should matter more than my heartbreak.
A strange calm settled over me.
The kind that arrives when the final piece of a puzzle clicks into place.
“Ethan.”
He stopped pacing.
“I don’t care.”
His face fell.
“I don’t care what people say.”
“I don’t care what your colleagues think.”
“I don’t care what your board thinks.”
“I don’t care what your family thinks.”
His eyes widened.
“I cared about what you thought.”
I took one measured step toward him.
“And somewhere along the way…”
“…I forgot to care about what I thought.”
Not anymore.
He opened his mouth to argue.
I didn’t let him.
“I’m choosing myself.”
The words felt unfamiliar.
Powerful.
“I should have done it a long time ago.”
His expression shifted from disbelief to desperation.
“You’ll regret this.”
“Maybe.”
“You’ll realize you’re making a mistake.”
“Maybe.”
“You’ll come back.”
I shook my head gently.
“No.”
He stared at me, searching my face for hesitation.
For uncertainty.
For the woman who always backed down.
She wasn’t there anymore.
“I’m filing for divorce.”
“And this time…”
I met his eyes without flinching.
“…that’s the only decision I’m not changing.”
- Writer
