Page 7 of Sins of Autumn

It wasn’t until I slid into the driver’s seat of my sporty sedan that Wilder always teased me about that I finally let out the first choked sob I’d been holding back, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white.

Holy fuck, thishurt.

The pain ripped through me, sharper than anything I had ever felt.

I’d sworn I would never be that girl, the one who aggressively claimed their man would never cheat, only to end up looking like a complete fool. Yet there I was, sitting behind the wheel of my car, feeling every bit the idiot, humiliated, and blindsided.

I blinked through the tears that welled up, my vision blurring. Even if he wasn't physically cheating—which I found hard to believe--there were still those fucking pictures, the messages. The betrayal clung to me like a second skin. I wasn’t just mad at Wilder; I was mad at myself. Mad that I had let it get this far. Mad that I’d ignored every red flag.

There was still a pitiful, delusional voice inside my head, whispering that I had this all wrong. That there was some reasonable explanation for everything. I shut that stupid bitch down real quick.

I knew better than to let that voice take over. It was delusional. I’d seen what it did to my mom, how it had driven her to ignore the truth and live in denial until it was too late. She spent her last days clinging to some fantasy that everything would be okay, even as my dad’s lies chipped away at her until there was nothing left.

It drove her into an early grave, leaving me with a father who drank too damn much because he regretted his shitty choices far too late to fix anything. He wasn’t a mean or angry drunk; he was a sobbing pathetic one. His death led to me being taken in by a new family entirely.

I wasn’t going to be her.

Icouldn’tbe her.

And the worst part? Wilder knew all about that. He knew what it had done to me, the scars I carried from watching my mom unravel. So how could he do the same damn thing?

The ache in my chest burrowed deeper, sharper, cutting through the anger. He was supposed to be different. He was supposed to understand. That hurt even more than the lies.

I pulled out of the parking deck, gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping me tethered to reality. The streets were empty at this hour, the quiet hum of the city night wrapping around me as I drove. The streetlights blurred by, one after another, but I barely noticed them. My mind was still racing, tangled in everything that had happened.

My phone had only gone off once during the thirty-minute drive, and I didn’t need to check it to know who it was from. I ignored it the entire way, too afraid to see whatever excuse or bullshit justification he might have produced. It wouldn’t change anything. I knew that, but there was a part of me still clinging to some semblance of hope and terrified of what he said, or worse, what he hadn’t.

I turned down my street, the familiar sight doing little to calm the storm brewing inside me. I pulled into the driveway, parking behind Cherish’s Enclave, the SUV a reminder that I wasn’t alone in all of this. Daniella was still out, her closing shift at the bar likely just now ending. She’d be home soon enough, exhausted and smelling of beer and smoke, completely unaware of the mess I was in.

I turned off the engine, the car going silent, but the deafening quiet inside me only grew louder. The tears I’d been fighting for the entire drive started to blur my vision again, but I blinked them away, unwilling to fall apart just yet. I knew once I started, I wouldn’t stop. I stared at my phone, knowing there was an unread message waiting for me.

I didn’t want to read it.

I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of thinking I cared what he had to say. As I sat there, staring at the dark house, I knew I had to. If I didn’t, it would eat away at me all night.

With a shaky breath, I unlocked my phone and opened his message. It was simple. Just two words.

Wild:Come home.

I stared at the screen, my heart lurching painfully in my chest. He wasn’t talking about his penthouse. We always told each other that home for us was wherever the other was. For a split second, I almost typed out a response:You’re not my home anymore.The words were on the tip of my fingers, bitter and filled with the kind of pain that makes you lash out. I stopped myself. That was what he wanted—some sort of reaction. Anything to make me fall back into the orbit of his control. Instead, I did something better.

Nothing.

Silence could be just as powerful as any reply.

Let him sit there, waiting for a response that wasn’t coming. I didn’t stop there. I took it further.

With trembling hands, I went through my phone, systematically blocking him on everything—calls, texts, social media. Every app that connected me to him felt like a live wire I had to sever, no matter how much it burned. Each block, each deliberate click, felt like carving pieces of my heart out, leaving raw, aching spaces where he was supposed to be. I paused with every step, hesitating, the weight of each decision pressing down like a physical blow.

After gathering all the composure I could muster, I finally exited the car, the cool fall air wrapping around me, sharp and biting. It was quiet, the kind of eerie stillness that made every small sound stand out. The crunch of leaves under my boots felt too loud as I crept toward the house, hoping that Moose wouldn’t hear me and start barking. The last thing I needed was him barreling down the stairs and waking up the whole neighborhood.

I barely made it halfway up the walkway when the front door swung open. The outside light clicked on, spilling warmth onto the front lawn. I froze, mid-step, blinking against the sudden brightness. Cherish stood in the doorway in nothing but a fluffy crop top and matching pajama shorts, her silk bonnet perched on her head, not exactly dressed for the chill in the air.

Her eyes locked on me, instantly reading the situation. We didn’t need words for her to know. She was the only person outside Wilder who could read me like an open book. My best friend turned sister from the day our parents adopted me at the age of thirteen.

She tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing in that way only a sister could manage, full of both concern and readiness for a fight. “Do I need to go grab my tennis shoes and Vaseline?” she asked in a calm, steady voice, “Or do you need me to hold you while you cry and rage?”

I let out a shaky laugh, though it felt more like a sob, and the tightness in my chest loosened just a fraction. I didn’t know what I needed yet, but just seeing her standing there made the weight of everything feel a little lighter. “Option one sounds perfect if I didn’t want to make us felons. I think I’m going to go cry in the shower,” I tried to joke, forcing a weak smile.

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