When I wake up, I feel a hand resting on me and hear soft, steady snoring behind me.
"Eric, baby, wake up," I whisper, trying to shake off the remnants of the night.

But then I hear a voice—cold and venomous.
"Eric? Really?!"
It's Kyle, and his tone slices through the haze like a knife.

I jolt upright, every bit of sleep gone in an instant as last night's reckless passion and guilt surge back.
"Omg! I should leave...I'm not supposed to be here... Oh, no!" I panic, scrambling to gather my scattered belongings.

"What are you doing, June? Where are you—" Kyle begins, his face a mixture of confusion and something darker.
"I'm going to my home, Kyle! I shouldn't have come here. This was a mistake...I can't believe I cheated on my hus—"
My confession cuts off as he groans and steps away from the bed, his expression hardening.

"I have a solution for that."
His injured hand, still steady despite its bandaged state, strokes my cheek with deliberate care.

I pull back, a cocktail of irritation and disbelief twisting inside me.
"What?" I ask, voice trembling with confusion.

"Divorce him, June."
In that moment, it feels as if I've been hit by 10,000 bricks.

"No! Hell no, Kyle! I love my husband and—"
I try to protest, but he takes a step back, hurt and incredulity marring his features.
"I can't believe this... What about me? Huh?" he yells, the pain in his voice unmistakable.

"Kyle, I can't cheat on my husband. I'm sorry... We shouldn't have done this. What was between us ended ten years ago—so much has changed," I stammer.

His eyes narrow in incredulity before he turns abruptly, storming into the bathroom and slamming the door with such force I can almost hear the hinges shake.

While I'm in the bathroom, a sudden thought grips me and I walk out to see him standing by the window,

"Kyle, did you know I was married to Eric before you had that partnership with him?" I ask, the words catching in my throat.

Kyle leans back, a wry smile on his face. "Yeah, I knew. But business has nothing to do with you, June. That said, I can't say I didn't seize the opportunity to see you again."

I shake my head, and rush back to the bathroom, I hurry to dress, tears streaming down my face as I run out of his apartment.

Two days pass without a word from him, and my hand itches with the urge to dial his number—but I stop myself.
I'm bored now; my book launch is still a few days away, and Eric's due to return. Yet, here I am, alone in this empty space, haunted by what I've done.

In an attempt to anchor my thoughts, I decide to start a journal—a detailed diary of my life from now on. I'm grateful for the diary I picked up on that trip to Sicily. Oh, Sicily, how I miss your sunlit coasts and quiet alleys.

I need a pen. All my stationery seems to have vanished. Eric must have a spare in his study. When I'm out in town, I'll stop by a bookshop. For now, I rummage through his drawers—right, left, both—until, shifting a stack of books, something catches my eye.

I pull out a photograph—a striking image of a beautiful woman and a little boy, perhaps seven or eight years old. On the back, in neat script, it reads: Cécile Thompson, dated just a year ago.
Who are they? And why is this picture tucked away in Eric's study?

My curiosity wars with my guilt. I'm already overwhelmed—first cheating on my husband and now discovering an unknown picture in my husband's drawer. What does it mean?

Unable to think clearly, I decide I need a warm bath to soothe my frazzled nerves. I quickly run a bath, adding essential oils and lighting scented candles. I pluck a rose from a vase in the kitchen, scattering its petals into the steaming water. That, at least, feels like a small act of self-care. I pour a glass of wine, nodding to myself as I sink into the tub. For a moment, the warm water eases the tension. I close my eyes, trying to formulate a plan.
Do I tell Eric? How will he react? No, I'm terrified—he'd hate me, I'm sure of it.

Eventually, the bath and wine aren't enough to banish the gnawing anxiety, and it's far too late to call Amrita. I decide to sleep on it and call her in the morning, hoping a solution will come.

A sudden, playful shout snaps me from my troubled thoughts.
"Daddy! Catch me, daddy!"
I hear a cheerful squeal of the little boy I recognize from the photograph.
"Stop running, you'll fall," Eric calls calmly. But the boy ignores him, darting into his arms. Eric lifts him up, and in that domestic scene a new world appears.

"Who wants some fresh lemonade?" the woman—Cécile, I assume—asks, her voice light and musical. Dressed in a beautiful dress with flowing hair, she exchanges a bright smile with Eric. The little boy wriggles and then runs to her. "Me!" he exclaims.

Eric and Cécile laugh together, a brief moment of familial warmth. Then, as the boy sips his drink, they turn toward me. Cécile's smile is coy, but Eric's face is twisted in disgust.
"I don't know how I ever trusted such a cheating wanton woman... Shameless, sleeping with a married man while being married herself," he spits out.
Cécile makes a disapproving sound, shakes her head, then turns to Eric and kisses him deeply. He wraps his arms around her, and for a moment, I feel utterly alienated.

I wake up—screaming no—with sweat and tears drenching my face. I bury my head in my hands and sob.
With shaky fingers, I check my phone on the bedside table. It's 4:25 AM—still so damn early. I consider calling Amy but decide to wait until I'm more composed.

A text from Kyle lights up the screen. I groan and switch the phone off, feeling numb.

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