Chapter 6: Midnight Confessions
Friday night, eight o'clock. I was sitting on my bedroom floor, sorting through three weeks worth of laundry and trying to figure out what the hell came next. The house felt different somehow—quieter, like it was holding its breath.
Then I heard the front door open.
Keys jingling, footsteps in the hallway. My heart did this weird little skip before I remembered he wasn't supposed to be here.
"Celeste?" Adrian's voice carried up the stairs.
I found him in the living room, holding white roses like some kind of peace offering. He looked rough—stubble, wrinkled shirt, bags under his eyes that hadn't been there three weeks ago.
"Adrian, what are you doing here? You said you'd stay at the hotel."
"I've had three weeks to think." He set the flowers on the coffee table, careful not to move too fast. "Three weeks to realize what I'm losing."
What he's losing. Not what we're losing.
"You've got the picture.I saw it hanging in the office."
"That's just the beginning." His voice got stronger, more confident. "I cancelled the European exhibition tour with Evangeline. Told her we're done working together."
That stopped me cold. "You cancelled a million-dollar deal?"
"It was never about the money, Celeste. It was about proving myself to people who don't matter." He took a step closer. "Please. Just one evening. Let me show you I can change."
Is he serious? Or is this just another performance?
But something in his face looked different. Raw, maybe. Like he'd been scraped down to something real.
"One evening," I heard myself saying. "That's it."
An hour later, I walked into our dining room and stopped dead. Candles everywhere, the good china, and sitting right there in the center—Mom's Mexican ceramic plates. The ones with the hand-painted birds that she'd brought from Guadalajara forty years ago.
"Your mother's plates，" Adrian said softly, "you always said they were for special occasions only."
My throat tightened. "You remembered?"
"I remember everything you ever told me, Celeste. I just... got distracted by other things."
"Other people, you mean."
He winced. "Evangeline was a mistake. A professional relationship that got complicated."
"Complicated." I picked up one of Mom's plates, tracing the delicate bird pattern with my finger. "That's one way to put it."
"I never meant for it to hurt you. I thought I was building something for us."
For us. Always back to us.
But the dinner was good. Really good. He'd made my favorite pasta, opened a bottle of wine we'd been saving, even put on that playlist we used to listen to when we first moved in together. For two hours, it almost felt like old times.
Almost.
After dinner, we ended up on the couch with coffee, the space between us careful but not hostile. Adrian kept glancing at me like he was afraid I might disappear again.
"I'll keep staying in the guest room," he said finally. "I know trust takes time to rebuild."
I stared into my coffee cup, watching the steam curl up toward the ceiling. Three weeks in New York had given me clarity, but sitting here with him, smelling his cologne and remembering how his laugh used to make me feel safe...
Maybe I need to give this one last real chance. For seven years. For what we used to be.
"No," I said quietly. "Tonight... tonight you can stay in our room."
Adrian's head snapped up. "Are you sure?"
"If we're gonna try to fix this, we can't keep living like strangers in the same house."
The look on his face—surprise, relief, something that might've been love—almost made me believe we could actually do this.
"Thank you, Celeste. For giving us another chance."
Us. There's that word again.
Two in the morning. I lay on my side of the bed, listening to Adrian breathe beside me. He'd been asleep for an hour, but my brain wouldn't shut up. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Luna's gallery, heard Maya talking about authentic art, remembered the way New York had made me feel alive again.
Maybe this is enough. Maybe we can work through this.
Then Adrian started talking in his sleep.
At first it was just mumbling, the kind of random noise people make when they're dreaming. But then his voice got clearer.
"Evangeline..." The name came out soft, almost tender. "So beautiful... yes, like that..."
My blood turned to ice.
"The gallery... our secret..." He rolled over, facing away from me. "She understands art... real art..."
Our secret? How long has this been going on?
I held my breath, hoping he'd stop, hoping I'd imagined it. But he kept going.
"Celeste doesn't... doesn't get it..." His voice was clearer now, like he was having a real conversation. "Evangeline knows... knows what I need..."
Even in his dreams, he chooses her.
I stared at the ceiling until sunrise, listening to my husband's unconscious mind betray every promise he'd made downstairs. By the time light started creeping through the curtains, I knew exactly what I had to do.
It's not just physical. He's emotionally involved with her. Completely.
'Celeste doesn't get it.' How long has he been thinking that?
All this time, I thought I was fighting for our marriage. But there is no 'our' left to fight for.
Seven o'clock. I slipped out of bed and went downstairs to make coffee, my hands surprisingly steady as I measured grounds and water. Adrian found me twenty minutes later, hair messy, wearing the T-shirt I'd bought him for his birthday.
"Good morning." He tried to put his arms around me from behind. "Thank you for last night. For giving us a chance."
I didn't turn around. "You talk in your sleep, Adrian."
His hands froze on my shoulders. "What?"
"'Evangeline... so beautiful... she understands real art... Celeste doesn't get it.'" I poured coffee into two mugs, my voice steady as rock. "Want some coffee?"
The silence behind me was deafening.
"Celeste, I... that's not... dreams don't mean anything."
I turned around to face him. He looked like he was gonna throw up.
"Don't they? Because it sounded like the most honest thing you've said in months."
He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. Then his whole face just crumpled.
"I didn't want it to happen. I tried to keep it professional."
"When did it stop being professional?"
Adrian slumped against the counter like someone had cut his strings. "Venice Biennale. That first night in her hotel room." He looked up at me with tears in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Celeste. I'm so sorry."
I picked up my coffee mug and took a sip. The coffee was perfect—rich, strong, exactly how I liked it.
"Thank you," I said, setting the mug down with a soft clink that seemed to echo in the quiet kitchen.
"For what?"
I looked at my husband—really looked at him—maybe for the last time. "For finally telling me the truth. Now I know exactly what I need to do."
Adrian's head shot up, panic flooding his face. "Celeste, wait—"
But I was already walking toward the stairs. This time, it really was over.