Page 58 of The VIP Package

No. Not at our fingers.

He’s looking at the scar on his chest.

Slowly, so very gently, I trail a fingertip over that thin, raised, white line. I don’t speak a word. Just this silent acknowledgment that this scar is a part of him. That I see Ashton Holyfield, all of him. The visible scars and the unseen ones.

“There’s a story behind that scar,” he says softly.

I swallow the swell in my throat. “You mean besides a minor accident in your twenties that involved drinking?” I suspected that wasn’t the full story.

“Iwasdrinking,” he says. “Coffee. Brigitte had just found out about my latest affair and snatched the mug from my hand. She smashed it on the table and the handle flew off.” He touches the mark like it burns. “Took six stitches to close it. She said she was sorry. But not nearly as sorry as I was.”

“Oh, Ash.” I glide my hand over it, warming the spot with my palm. “I know it hurts.” I don’t mean the physical pain.

“I deserve every bit of pain and then some.” His jaw clenches again. “You said earlier that we all make mistakes.”

“We do.”

“But I kept making mine. At a certain point, it’s no longer a mistake. It’s a deliberate choice to hurt someone else. That’s who I was. What I’m capable of.”

My therapist brain fights to engage. I force those thoughts back and make myself talk like a regular person. “People change, Ash.” I hesitate. “Do you think you’ve changed?”

Ash doesn’t answer the question. He draws another long breath and closes his eyes again. “That was the turning point. The point where I tried to repair my marriage. Maybe there was already too much damage. Before that moment, I don’t know how many times I cheated and got caught. Too many to count. Maybe some sick, twisted part of me wanted to get caught.”

That’s a very distinct possibility. “I’m going to ask a question, but please don’t feel like you need to reply.”

He gives a nod of assent, but I pause anyway. Once I ask it, I can’t unknow the answer. But part of me needs to know.

If there’s one thing my career has taught me, it’s that people who punish themselves find ways for the punishment to fit their perceived crime. I once had a client who had an affair with his husband’s best friend from Italy. To punish himself, he vowed hewould never speak Italian again, even though it was his native tongue.

In a roundabout way, that’s where my question is coming from.

“Do you blame your infidelity for your wife’s death?” I might not have asked that right. “That is, do you believe your quest for sexual fulfillment led to her passing?”

His eyes are still shut, and I watch as his forehead furrows. Emotion plays over his face—pain, regret, shame—as I lie here caressing the scar.

“I don’t believe it,” he says roughly. “Iknowit.”

I wait for Ash to continue. For him to fill in whatever blanks he’s willing to.

The hand on his chest starts to rise as Ash draws a shuddery breath. “I swore I was done betraying my wife, and I meant it. We’d gone through three months of couples’ therapy, and I was in a good place.Wewere in a good place. Grayson was four and just starting preschool. Brigitte agreed to a second chance. But there was a catch.”

I hold my breath, waiting in silence. I already know this story won’t have a happy ending.

“Brigitte had a desire to even the score. It’s something we talked through in therapy, and believe it or not, our therapist agreed.”

“How do you mean?”

“She wanted to sleep with her old high school sweetheart. A man she once dated and never had sex with. She thought—” His voice breaks off as he pulls in a breath. “She thought maybe if she did that—if she got it out of her system—it would somehow make things feel fair. That we could start with a clean slate after that.”

Oh, God.

I’ve proposed my share of unconventional therapies, but that isn’t something I’d ever suggest. I won’t say so out loud, but good lord.

“I was fine with it,” he says, and I relax just a little. “Anything to help Brigitte forgive me. If I’m being honest, I’ve always been aroused by the idea of my partner with somebody else. At the time, I thought it made me a sick, twisted fuck.” His face contorts in a grimace. “It took meeting Sybil and Kora to see that’s not always unhealthy. That it can work in a loving, consensual relationship.”

“It’s a common proclivity,” I say, not sharing the formal terminology for that particular kink. That’s not what he needs now. “Did Brigitte go through with it?”

Ashton releases a long, shaky breath. “She made plans to meet him one weekend. We agreed I would fly her back to her hometown where the man still lived. I owned a small plane and had my pilot’s license.” His throat rolls as he swallows. “But something came up at work.”

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