DISCLAIMER: *This story is inspired by the TV series 'Poldark.' The characters are not mine, but their journeys have been tweaked a little.*

You know what I keep thinking about? The day I came home to my wife at dawn, having rutted myself in another woman the night before. Not just any woman — but a woman I've had feelings for since I was sixteen. A woman who was promised to me before I had my accident and everything went to hell.

My wife, who'd given me three children — one of which had died of a fever, had simply stared at me, not saying a word. None needed to be said. I had done what I'd done and there was no changing it.

I should've told her that I was sorry. Fallen on my knees and begged for her forgiveness. Instead, the words she'd heard me say were, "I had no choice."

I had a black eye for three days from the deck she'd given me. And I'd deserved it, if not more. After all, she'd given me kids and a happy home, and I had repaid her by bringing in a third party and ruining our marriage.

The days that followed were literally hell. At first, Delilah would lash out at little things. Scream at me to go back to where I came from. She'd even offered to help me pack. She retired to another room in our small apartment, cooking only for herself and the kids. What was once a family of happy meals and deep, meaningful conversations had turned to starvation and words laced with insults. We could barely utter a single sentence without barking at each other. Me trying to get her to understand why I had to do what I did, that I couldn't possibly let Emily marry my mortal enemy, Grant, that I would never deliberately hurt her, and she saying she wanted to hear none of it. That it had taken one mail from my ex for me to come running back into her bed. So was I trying to say I inflicted pain by accident, without a second thought?

She was right. In that steamy moment, I did not think of her at all. It was as if I was possessed. And I knew this was no excuse.

I knew Delilah was hurting. I knew she wanted me to tell her that I love her and that I was ashamed of what I did. But I didn't say any of that. Pride, arrogance, and self-justification got in the way and soon, so did feigned indifference.

* * *

Logan wasn't one to brag about his possessions, even when he'd had enough to feed an entire nation. The son of a wealthy aristocrat, Logan was born rich. Led a life of privilege and was bred a proper gentleman. He'd wanted for nothing.

Until he'd met Emily Williams. Emily was everything a man wanted in a woman. Beautiful, graceful, compassionate, educated, smart, and yes, rich. Her family was not wealthier than his, but they came close. She was the kind of girl that had been brought up specifically to be the perfect wife to an eligible bachelor. The perfect partner. And for three years, she was. He'd loved her, and she'd loved him.

But their paradise was short-lived. Logan and his family had an accident with a truck and not only had he been orphaned because of it, but he'd also been in a coma for six years. When he'd woken up, he'd found out that Emily was engaged to another man. And not just any man — his disagreeable distant cousin, Grant, who had been an incessant thorn in his side since childhood.

Logan hadn't really been the same after that, burying himself in the restoration of his dad's ruined estate and crumbling business. He managed to salvage most of what was lost, but it wasn't nearly enough and soon, Logan had to get used to life as an ordinary man.

And that was how he met Delilah.

* * *

Two days after my sordid affair with Emily, I had arrived in the morning to an empty home. The kids were in their rooms with our maid, but it didn't take a genius to realize that Delilah hadn't come home the previous night as her bed was untouched. Worry overtook me, and I wasted no time to go in search of my wife.

Less than an hour later, I found her walking home from the beach. She looked deep in thought and her countenance was one of utter agony. I remembered feeling miserable, feeling a giant ache in my gut as I approached her.

When she saw me, she'd sarcastically thanked me for gracing her with my presence and had asked why I was back so soon. Whether Emily had thrown me out of her life because she knew Grant was the better man.

That statement had hurt more than she could ever imagine. Which was what she was aiming for anyway. But more to the point, I realized something in that instant. What if Delilah actually meant that? What if I was so far gone in her eyes that she really believed a bastard like Grant was a better man than I was? The thought had scared me to my core, but I chose to believe it was her hurt pride and anger talking, and remained stoic, expecting her to accept what had happened and move on.

There were a couple of back and forth statements stinged with patronization on my part and malice on hers at that lovely beach. Soon, without a trace of sarcasm in her words, Delilah had asked me if I loved Emily. She knew the surface of my past with Emily and had been suspecting I still harbored feelings for her long before my betrayal, but she'd said nothing, choosing to trust me. A trust I had forfeited.

Again, I should have said no, that I did not love Emily. But that would've been a lie. So instead, she heard me say the words, "I don't know."

The look she'd given me was one of abject disappointment and her only reply was, "Go back to her."

* * *

"Fortune favors the bold" had to be the biggest lie in the universe if Delilah's very existence was any proof. Born to a disgraced preacher in a family of eight, Delilah never knew a day of peace in her life. The word "happy" was foreign to her and the sentence, "a good, satisfying meal" was even more foreign. What she ate, she had to steal from the privileged. Her mum? Dead. Her dad? An abuser. Her brothers? Useless.

Delilah's only faithful company was her dog, Prometheus, which she took with her for one of her many thieving escapades at the local market.

Unluckily for her, she'd gotten caught. In her town, if you were caught stealing, your hand would be chopped clean from your arm. Jungle justice and whatnot. No one would help you. And by the time the police got wind about what was going on, you would have already lost your hand and probably bleeding to death on the disgusting street.

So Delilah had known for sure that the day had finally come for her miserable existence to come to an end. What was everyone always saying? Ninety nine days for the thief and one day for the master. That much was true. She was about to get a front row seat to that testiment.

But when the stranger she'd tried to steal from steered off the angry mob, claiming that she was his daughter and that they had both just been playing a game, Delilah had felt the very world stand still. Why was a complete stranger helping her? She'd tried to rob him, for heaven's sake.

It all made sense a couple minutes later when the handsome stranger had told her what he'd done hadn't been for free. She was going to have to repay him by being his maid for a year.

Considering the shitty life she had, Delilah figured being tied to this stranger for a whole year wasn't any worse. At least she'd have a proper meal and still get to keep Prometheus. Also, she needed a decent bath and a bed to lie on that wasn't crowded by her seven siblings or riddled with termites.

When God shut a door, he opened a window.

* * *

Within a week, my wife and I became nothing but strangers. Parading around the house like lost souls, reduced to lame monosyllables and only speaking when spoken to. The only time we ever really felt like a family was when we played with our kids, Jeremy and Abigail who thankfully, were too young to sense the tension and stiff, long bridge between their parents.

Emily had grown a life of her own in our marriage. Spreading wider every time I left the house and came back late, and every time she did the same.

I tried bringing her gifts and profits from my small architecture business, but she barely acknowledged them, only taking what she needed to fend for the house. I asked her out on dates, she claimed to be busy. I declined a great job offer overseas because I knew that would further separate her from me, and I told her so. I told her that I chose to stay with her despite my ambitions, but she didn't even bat an eyelash. She'd instead told me it wasn't her concern what I chose to do, only what she chooses. And she chooses not to be second best.

It dawned on me then that it didn't matter what I did, I was dead to my wife. I believe the exact words she used were "My pride in you is lost."

In all the years I've known her, my wife had never said an unkind word to me. She respected me first as her boss, and then as her husband. She'd been my maid for months and had excelled at it. I had realized my growing warmth for her soon enough and after a shared night of raging hormones and thoughtlessness, decided we should tie the knot.

If I was being honest, I would say that I married Delilah because she was what I needed at the time. A strong, steadfast, and true woman who was prepared to get her hands dirty, do what needed to be done and take proper care of the house despite the menial means. She was born poor so she was used to having to manage her resources, and despite her illiteracy, I couldn't have picked a better woman.

Perhaps I took her for granted. But it didn't matter now. Delilah had once believed me to be a man of virtue and honesty. Of compassion and brilliance. Different from other men.

Now, she believed I was so much less than other men.

And that knowledge destroyed me.

* * *

From saving a failed pickpocket to making her his housemaid and then his bride, Logan had begun to question his sanity. And so had everyone in his neighborhood. Not that Delilah wasn't good looking, because she was. It was merely because of how fast it had happened. Not to mention their staggering age difference. Delilah wasn't more than eighteen. He was a whole tricenarian. He'd all but robbed the cradle.

But his life had gotten considerably better after her arrival. It was mutual as he had taught her to read and write and she was forever grateful. After their first child, Logan knew he would do anything to protect his family from any sort of harm. He couldn't describe the intense feeling that overtook him when he'd first laid eyes on his daughter's face, so beautiful and innocent. She had her mother's eyes and his nose, and he knew her name before his thoughts had even processed it.

When Gift died, Logan had thought his whole life would fall apart. The unbridled pain that pulled at his chest promised to drown him in the throes of despair, but he remained strong for Delilah, whose tears were like blood from a stone.

Life continued, no better or worse than it did before and when they had their second child, Logan was over the moon. Jeremy was a healthy boy and the spitting image of his granddad. By the time their third child, Abigail, was born, Logan was starting to worry about the multiplying mouths to feed. But he remained content in his growing family.

Until he received an invite to the wedding of Emily Williams and Grant Jones. Anger, pain, despair, and bitterness the likes of which he'd never known rippled through him as he tore the finely printed card to shreds.

Before he knew what he was doing, he'd brushed past his pleading wife and driven straight to Emily's house.

* * *

She's leaving me. To be honest, I'm surprised she didn't do so sooner. I have become a shell of myself these past months. Soaking up my problems with three drinks a day and not showing up at home for several days at a time. I spend my days ignoring my duties and my nights gambling. In my shenanigans, I have squandered almost all our money.

The man Delilah had married would have beaten me black and blue for such a behavior. She is better off without me, truly. She and the kids.

So why then, do I want to throw myself off a cliff? Why does the very thought of life without my family make me want to roll up and die?

Because I'm a failure. As a man, a husband, and a father. Which is worse, I don't know. I only know I'm drowning, and there's no one pulling me up for air. Yet I have no one to blame but myself.

Why is it easier to talk to inanimate objects than it is with people? I've written so much in here than I've ever said to my patient wife in a lifetime. I have taken her for granted. I think in some ways, I felt she was beneath me. A subconscious thing that manifested itself in my head. A sort of deep incrusted prejudice of her being undeserving of a man who had the kind of life I once had. She is Delilah, my robber, my housemaid, my wife, the mother of my children, the outsider, the resilient woman who had supported me both as a help and a wife without expectations.

If one were to ask me what I regret, I would say I regret a lot. I regret losing my parents. I regret being a disappointing father and an even worse husband. I regret saying the things I shouldn't have said and not saying the things I should have said. I regret treating Emily the way I did, but I do not regret her. For without Emily, I would not have known what loving Delilah truly meant.

Emily is my first love, I love her still. Not as I did before but with fondness, a ghost of a love. Seeing her that night, she hadn't changed. She was still lovely, still the perfect woman. But I have. I've changed. Because of Delilah. She's the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I cannot lose her. If I do, then life is not worth living.

This is my final entry.

* * *

Tears like summer rain poured out of Delilah's eyes as she read her husband's words for the eleventh time. She hadn't even realized she was crying until a teardrop landed on the thick, white paper, sludging a few words.

Delilah knew it was wrong to read someone's journal, even if that someone was her husband, but once it was handed to her by the rather unfriendly police officer, reading it was inevitable.

It had been found in the damage where Logan's car had collided into another. "A freak accident" they had called it. But Delilah knew better.

The pain she felt searing through her was not unlike the one she'd had when Logan had returned home that morning, his mere countenance telling of his betrayal. Not once had he apologized to her, not once. He'd merely tried to justify his actions as if she would care for it.

From the moment he'd made her his maid, she'd known he was not like other men. Despite his attempts to prove her wrong, she could tell he had a kind of nobility to him. Not of birth but of character. She'd looked up to him as she'd never known a man as intriguing or as complex as he was. She'd loved him long before she'd become his wife and was so proud to think that such a man had married her.

After his betrayal, she'd believed that man was long gone. Lost in the same sheets he'd buried their marriage in. But as she read his entries, his secret inner thoughts of their life, of her, of his profound regret and utter desire to be better, she knew there was a chance they could save their marriage.

He just had to wake up first.

A/n: I can't stand cheats. But I love voters^_^