Chapter Five

The house was quieter than usual that night. The day’s laughter had long faded, leaving only the sound of the ticking wall clock and the occasional night breeze rattling the curtains. Emelia sat on the edge of her bed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her mind far from rest.

 She should have been comforted by the silence, but it felt suffocating. Her heart still carried the heaviness of Rachel’s cries on the beach—the way the little girl clung to her mother with desperate love. It stirred something raw inside her, something she hadn’t allowed herself to dwell on too much.

 Three years of marriage. Three years of waiting. Of hoping. Of doctor visits and whispered prayers. And nothing. No child. No little arms to cling to her.

 She pressed her palms over her face, sighing heavily. Why does it hurt so much?

 A soft knock came on the door. She didn’t need to ask who it was.

 “Come in,” she said quietly.

 The door creaked open, and August stepped in. He looked weary, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his steps slow as though carrying the weight of more than his body. He closed the door gently and leaned against it, his eyes fixed on her.

 “You’ve been quiet since we got back,” he said, his voice low.

 Emelia gave a small shrug. “It was… a long day.”

 August walked over and sat beside her on the bed. For a moment, neither of them spoke. He reached for her hand, holding it gently. His touch was warm, grounding, but also fragile.

 “I know what you’re thinking,” he whispered. “I saw the way you looked at Chisom and Rachel today. You don’t have to say it.”

 Her throat tightened. She wanted to deny it, but tears pricked her eyes. “August, I just… I want that too. I want a child of my own.”

 He closed his eyes, his jaw tightening. “And I want it for you. For us.”

 Silence stretched between them. A silence filled with all the words they couldn’t bring themselves to say.

 Finally, August turned to her, his face etched with pain. “Ethan will come by tomorrow. We should… try again.”

 Her breath hitched. Ethan. The name alone was enough to send a rush of heat through her veins. She hated herself for it. Hated the way her mind betrayed her with images of that night—his hands, his lips, the weight of him pressing her into the sheets. She had told herself it was duty, an obligation to her husband, nothing more. But she couldn’t shake it.

 Her body had remembered.

 And now, as August’s words sank in, she felt both dread and a dangerous flicker of something else.

 She nodded slowly, avoiding his eyes. “Alright.”

 But when August lay down beside her that night and drifted into restless sleep, Emelia remained awake, staring at the ceiling, her heart pounding with unspoken fear.

 Because deep inside, she knew the truth. The more time she spent near Ethan, the harder it would be to pretend it was only about a child.

 It was already becoming something else.

 Something she could not control.

 The night after the beach gathering carried a strange silence into the walls of August and Emelia’s home. The air was thick, as though the very house had absorbed all the laughter and warmth of the day, leaving behind a vacuum of quiet unease.

 Emelia lay wide awake on her side of the bed, her face half-buried into the pillow. August’s steady breathing beside her was meant to be comforting, but tonight, it felt like a burden—an anchor chaining her to expectations she could no longer carry with ease.

 She closed her eyes and forced herself to think of Rachel’s giggles at the beach, of Chioma’s bright smile, of the way August’s hand had steadied her as they all spread the mat under the tree. But every time she tried to focus, another face intruded. Ethan’s.

 The memory of that one night, unplanned and forbidden, burned at the edges of her mind. She had convinced herself it was a mistake, that the heat of the moment had no power beyond its shame. But in the stillness of her marriage bed, she could still feel the ghost of his touch, the sharpness of his gaze, the dangerous ease with which he had disarmed her.

 Beside her, August stirred. His hand reached over, brushing her arm lightly.

 “You’re awake,” he whispered in the dark, his voice soft, careful.

 “Yes.” Her reply was flat, betraying none of the turmoil within her.

 He sighed, turning to face her. Even in the shadows, she could see the weight in his eyes. “Emelia… we can’t go on like this. We’ve been married long enough. We need to try—again. For the family we’ve been praying for.”

 Her chest tightened. She hated this—hated how much of their life together had become about trying. Every month a cycle of hope and heartbreak, every night a reminder of failure, every embrace a duty more than a desire.

 Still, she forced a small nod. “I know.”

 He reached for her hand under the blanket, his grip warm, searching. “Let’s not give up. God’s timing is perfect, Emelia. We have to keep believing.”

 She swallowed hard, unable to find words. His faith was unwavering, his heart good. And yet, in the pit of her soul, she knew belief wasn’t her problem. It was desire.

 Because even now, as her husband pleaded for closeness, her thoughts were elsewhere—drawn to another man who had no right to occupy her.

 So she whispered, barely audible: “Okay. We’ll try.”

 August exhaled, relief softening his face. He leaned closer, kissed her forehead tenderly, and pulled her into his arms. She let him, stiff at first, then slowly relaxing into the embrace—not out of love, but out of guilt.

 Her eyes stayed open long after his closed. And in the darkness, Ethan’s shadow lingered, mocking her resolve.

 The next morning broke with the chatter of birds perched along the bougainvillea fence outside. The compound smelled faintly of dew and firewood smoke from a neighbor’s kitchen. Emelia stood in the living room, dressed simply in a lilac blouse and wrapper, her hair tied back loosely. She had been dusting, though her movements were distracted, mechanical.

 She wasn’t caught off guard by the sound of the car horn—she had been waiting for it, dreading it. August had told her the previous morning, after they returned from the beach, that Ethan would be visiting today. He had spoken casually, almost with relief, saying there was something important he wanted to discuss with his cousin about their father’s outreach program.

 Emelia hadn’t protested. She couldn’t. But the moment the familiar black Lexus rolled into the compound, her chest tightened.

 Ethan stepped out with his usual casual arrogance. A white polo clung to his broad chest, his chain glinting in the sun. He moved like he owned any space he entered.

 August emerged from the bedroom just in time. “That should be Ethan,” he said with a mild smile, as if repeating the obvious.

 “Yes,” Emelia murmured, her voice thin.

 Moments later, the doorbell rang. August went to open it, and Ethan strolled in, his cologne spreading like a silent announcement of his presence.

 “Big bro,” Ethan grinned, slapping August on the back. “Always a pleasure.”

 August smiled warmly. “You’re looking sharp, as usual.”

 Ethan smirked. “And you’re looking… pastoral,” he teased, earning a laugh from August.

 But then his eyes shifted—and found Emelia. For a fraction of a second, the room felt charged. He looked at her with the same boldness she dreaded, as though he could still taste the secret they shared. She quickly averted her gaze, clutching the duster in her hand.

 “Emelia,” Ethan said smoothly, his voice lower now. “Always radiant.”

 She forced a polite smile, keeping her eyes on the floor. “Welcome.”

 August didn’t seem to notice the undercurrent. “Let’s sit,” he said, motioning toward the sofa. “There’s some juice in the fridge, or I can get us bottles of malt.”

 Ethan laughed. “Malt will do. Brings back childhood memories.”

 Emelia excused herself to the kitchen to fetch the drinks, her hands trembling slightly as she carried the tray back. From the doorway, she could hear their voices—August’s steady, earnest tone, and Ethan’s smooth, calculated responses.

 She set the tray down on the table, opening one bottle for each of them. Ethan’s fingers brushed hers briefly as he reached for his drink. The contact was deliberate. Too deliberate.

 Her breath caught. She stepped back quickly, but his faint smirk told her he had noticed her reaction.

 “Refreshing,” Ethan said, taking a long sip. His eyes lingered on her a moment too long.

 August beamed with pride, misreading the moment entirely. “I tell you, my wife takes care of every detail.”

 “Indeed,” Ethan murmured, his gaze still locked on her.

 The air in the room thickened, charged with an unspoken history. Emelia sat down on the edge of her chair, her skin prickling under Ethan’s watchful presence.

 For the first time, she wondered—not with fear, but with a dangerous thrill—if last night’s restless thoughts had summoned him here.

 The gate clicked and a light knock followed.