Page 44 of Open Secrets
“I’m not talking aboutthat,” she cuts in, voice gritted, sharp enough to slice. Her eyes blaze at me, wet and furious. “I’m talking about Bethany.”
My stomach lurches. “Maria—”
“You told her,” she spits, every syllable heavy. “You told her our secret. And then you lied about it.”
“I—” My throat closes. I want to explain, to backpedal, but the words dry up.
She doesn’t give me the chance. “I was pissed when I thought it was Anna,” she goes on, her tone trembling, raw. “Because she’s a woman. Always preaching about women looking after women. And I felt… so goddamn betrayed that when she offered to move in during lockdown, when she offered for me to stay at her place, I said no. Because I didn’t need her to stab me in the back one more time.”
Her voice cracks, but she pushes through it, her head tilting, eyes blazing with something between rage and heartbreak. “And that—that is what miffs me. Not only did you take our parents away from us, not only did you make me beg strangers for help, but you made me push the one person whodidoffer help away. Because you wanted to protect your lie!”
Her words leave me gutted, stripped raw. I open my mouth, desperate to say something—anything—but nothing comes. No excuse, no defence, not even an apology that would mean a damn thing.
Maria lets out a long, tired sigh, the kind that sounds like it’s been waiting years to escape. Then she pushes back from the table, the chair legs scraping against the floor like a final verdict.
She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t say another word. Just turns and walks upstairs, each step slow, deliberate, the sound of her retreat echoing through the house.
I sit there in the silence she leaves behind, staring at her empty glass across the table, wondering when exactly my wife stopped being my partner—and when I became the enemy.
Chapter Fourteen
Maria — Present
After my shower, I sit on the edge of the bed, still wrapped in my robe. My eyes sting, puffy from crying, and my hair drips down my back, damp strands curling wild. I should dry it before it frizzes, before I crawl into bed, but I don’t have the energy. I don’t have the energy for anything.
The door slams open.
I don’t even flinch. I just stay where I am, staring at my hands as Lyle storms in, boots heavy against the hardwood. He paces once, twice, like a caged animal before snapping his head toward me.
“You said you weren’t pissed about it—really pissed—until you found out it was Bethany and not Anna.”
I lift my shoulders in a shrug, too tired for more. “I guess you can interpret it that way.”
He stops mid-step, rubs a hand over his mouth. His chest rises, falls, hard, like he’s swallowing words before they break him. Then his eyes slice back to me.
“Then why?” His voice cracks. “Why did you—” He looks away, dragging the words out like they taste like ash. “Sascha.”
I straighten, breath catching. “I thought you didn’t care.”
“Of course I care!” His voice rips through the room before he reins it back, softer but no less sharp. “Of course I care that my wife wanted to screw another man.”
I push to my feet, anger sparking where exhaustion sat heavy. “Is that what this is about? Jealousy?” My laugh is bitter. “You’re jealous I wanted another man? We’ve had an open marriage for three years, Lyle. Plenty of men have seen me naked. Touched me. Fucked me—”
His hand snaps up.
Warm, rough fingers close around my throat—not squeezing, not hurting, but holding. Holding like he’s reminding me who I belong to. His grip is firm, his knuckles trembling, his eyes burning with possession and pain.
The air between us goes electric. My chest rises, the robe loosening at my collarbone, and his thumb twitches against the thrum of my pulse.
“You think I don’t care?” His voice is low now, dangerous in its restraint. “You think I could ever watch another man touch you and not feel like it was tearing me apart?”
“Then why did you say yes?” My voice cracks, raw in my throat.
His hand stays on my neck for a heartbeat longer, then I shove it off. It falls easily. For a second, I think he’ll let me go.
But when I step back, his hands clamp around my waist. Firm. Pulling me back toward him.
“Why did you ask?” His voice breaks with it—less anger now, more pleading.
