Chapter 2: A Sleepless Night of Regret
Sophia’s P.O.V
I stared at Tristan, my heart hammering in my chest, my hands clenched at my sides as he rushed into the room, with a young woman in toe.
His brows furrowed, confusion flickering across his face as he asked, “What happened?”
The woman beside him—her lipstick slightly smudged, her dress slipping off one shoulder—glared at me as if I had crashed some holy moment.
My throat was dry, my mind scrambling for something, anything, that wouldn’t make me sound as pathetic as I felt. “I... I cut my finger,” I finally murmured, lifting my hand slightly to show the small wound, though I knew it was nothing.
Nothing compared to the ache in my chest.
Tristan stepped closer, his gaze dropping to my hand, and for a brief second, I thought I saw concern. But then he frowned, his lips pressing into a thin line as he exhaled sharply. “A cut like that, Sophia? You screamed as if you'd lost an arm.”
I swallowed, my fingers curling inward instinctively. “It just caught me off guard,” I lied, even as I felt the heat of humiliation creep up my neck.
His frown deepened, but it wasn’t out of worry—it was irritation. “You don’t have to do this,” he muttered, his voice laced with something that made my stomach twist. “Stop acting like a child over this. And don’t make a scene over nothing.”
“Tristan, that’s not—”
“Oh, please!” He shook his head, cutting me off as if I had just spoiled his mood. “You don’t need to be jealous. You can do whatever you want, Sophia. Just…please, for god’s sake, don’t make a scene like this ever again.”
Jealous? The word hit me harder than the actual wound on my finger.
I stared at him, my lips parting slightly, but no words came out. What was there to say? He had already made up his mind, already dismissed me as nothing more than a petty, bitter woman who couldn’t stand seeing him with someone else.
A bitter laugh threatened to escape, but I swallowed it down, holding his gaze even though it hurt. He didn’t wait for a response. Instead, he turned back to her, sliding an arm around her waist with ease, guiding her back toward the bedroom as if I wasn’t even there. As if I hadn’t just stood there, bleeding—both inside and out.
The woman gave me a triumphant smirk, one that told me that she knew Tristan had just chosen her over me, and that brought her immense satisfaction.
I didn’t move. I couldn’t. I stood frozen in place, listening to the soft creak of the door closing behind them, the muffled sounds of their laughter, their whispers, their presence filling the space where I was supposed to be. I pressed my palm against my chest, as if I could physically hold myself together, as if I could stop the pieces of me from scattering at my feet.
Time passed in a blur as I finally got back to work on dinner. It was almost like I was working on autopilot, my body moving with practiced ease, but my mind was elsewhere. I don’t know how long it was before the door creaked open once again.
And this time, when I turned back, the woman from earlier was dressed more appropriately, and as she passed the kitchen, she turned to look at me, a cunning smirk on her lips as if she knew something I didn’t. But then, she tossed her hair over her shoulder and walked out of the house without a second glance in my direction.
And then there he was again—Tristan, standing in front of me as if nothing had happened. As if the past hour hadn’t been a dagger lodged deep in my ribs.
He met my eyes briefly, but there was nothing there. No apology. No acknowledgment. Just that same indifference that told me exactly where I stood.
“I already had dinner.” He informed me. “You should finish up and get some rest.”
And with that, he was gone, leaving me alone to face my own demons.
I stared at the ceiling, my mind a tangled mess of emotions I couldn’t even start to unravel. The room was dim, the soft glow of the streetlights casting long shadows against the walls, and yet all I could focus on was the crushing weight in my chest.
I wondered, for what felt like the hundredth time that day, why I had ever agreed to this in the first place. Why had I let myself believe that this wouldn’t destroy me? That I could handle it? That I could live with this choice and not have it consume me from the inside out?
My fingers gripped the counter, cold and empty beside me, everything in this house screaming my own foolishness back at me.
I wanted to scream. To yell at myself for ever thinking that this would be okay. But what could I say?
I had agreed to this. I nodded and smiled and pretended that I was fine, that I was understanding, that I was the kind of woman who could be open-minded, who could see the bigger picture. But the truth was, I wasn’t. I wasn’t okay. I wasn’t understanding. I wasn’t fine.
I was falling apart, and the worst part was, I had no one to blame but myself. I could remember us laughing over burnt toast years ago, so carefree, but now I was left to face this nightmare alone in my own home.
It just felt like everything was on the brink of destruction and what’s worse, there was nothing i could do to salvage the situation we were in now because how could I even call this cheating when I had given him permission? How could I be angry when I had said yes?
A sharp sob broke from my throat, and I pressed my hand against my mouth, as if that could stop the flood of emotions clawing their way to the surface. I curled into myself on the kitchen floor, hugging my knees, trying to hold myself together as the pain threatened to break me apart.
Had he really given me a way out? Had he given me a chance to say no? But what was I supposed to do? Say no and watch him resent me for the rest of our marriage? Say no and make him feel trapped? I had been so afraid of losing him that I had handed him the knife and let him carve the wounds into me himself.
Now, I couldn’t even walk through my own house without seeing the reminders. A hair tie that wasn’t mine left on the bathroom counter. The faint scent of perfume lingering on the sheets even though I had washed them twice already.
The way his gaze had shifted when he looked at me, like he was trying to convince himself that nothing had changed when everything had. And maybe that was the cruelest part of all—he still came home, he still kissed my forehead, he still told me he loved me, but I could feel the difference, the space between us widening, stretching into something that I wasn’t sure we could ever come back from.
I wiped at my tears, but they kept falling, silent and unrelenting. I had to finish dinner for my daughters, even though my appetite had vanished the moment I had stepped inside my house.
So, for the next half hour, I dragged myself to the sink, hands trembling as I rinsed the knife even as I wiped my tears, the pain of what I was going through radiating through me anew. I prepared meals for my babies, and helped them eat their food in their rooms, before I headed back to the living area and collapsed onto the couch.
I couldn’t go back to sleep next to my husband, not after everything that had happened today. I turned onto my side, staring at the walls in front of me that were lined with pictures of us. It hit me then, in a way that stole the breath from my lungs—I had already lost him. I had agreed to this thinking it would keep him close, but in the end, all I had done was push him further away.
And now, I was the one left alone, crying over my own foolishness, drowning in the ache of a betrayal I had willingly let happen.