Chapter 2

You might be wondering why a single mix-up with a plane ticket was enough to make me lose all hope in my husband

The thing is, it wasn’t just one mistake. This ticket was the last mistake, his last chance to prove his love. 

But for this to make sense, we need to go back one more month…

[ONE MONTH AGO]

“Welcome home,” I smiled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

Misha paused by the door, loosening his tie as he exhaled. “Hey,” he said, his voice tired but gentle. “It was a long day.”

He leaned in to kiss my cheek—brief, familiar, practiced—before slipping off his shoes.

“I just need a quick shower,” he added. “Then I’m all yours.”

I nodded, stepping aside to let him pass. “Of course.”

Like most evenings lately, everything about him felt rushed, compressed into the small spaces left over after work. Carter Tech was expanding overseas, and the pressure had been relentless. Late nights. Endless meetings. Too many responsibilities resting on his shoulders

I told myself this distance between us was temporary. That it was only stress that has changed his mood. Being here, waiting for him, caring for him–this is how I support him now. 

But when he isn’t here, the penthouse feels painfully empty, every room echoing with a quiet I never quite get used to.

We’ve been married for three years. I walked away from a promising career in medicine to support his ambitions, manage our home, and to build the family we always talked about.  

But how can we build that family if he’s not here?

When Misha returned in clean sweats, his earlier tension seemed to melt away. He smiled, softer this time, becoming the kind, charismatic husband I had missed

“Smells amazing,” he said, pulling out a chair.

Dinner was easy. Comfortable. We laughed, shared the highs and lows of our day. It felt good being together like this, and by the time we made it over to the couch to watch our movie and relax, we had found our old rhythm.

Just like old times. 

His hands played over the length of my legs as I draped them across his lap and reached over to grab a mint from the coffee table. Misha reached over a moment later for his post dinner cigarette. I’ve always hated that he smoked. It’s a disgusting unhealthy habit–one that I’ve begged him to give up so many times over the years, but he refused, saying it made him feel “macho.” 

 “What kind of man would I be if I let you talk me out of this?” he had scoffed at me the last time I had mentioned it. “Seriously, Ari, there are worse vices. I’ve given up so much for this marriage, let me keep this one thing.” 

He had been so irritated that I never mentioned it again. He even laughed at me when I mentioned how cigarettes lower his sperm count, making it harder for us to have a baby, and told me I was being ridiculous. 

But this time, when he reached for the pack on the table, his hand grazed over it, to take one of the mints from the small dish. 

“You quit smoking?” I commented casually, noting the change in a flat, even tone.

“Yeah, and,” he snorted as he popped the candy into his mouth. “Didn’t you say you hated the smell?”

“Yes,” my lips curled with amusement, “I mean, I say it all the time. But you’ve never listened. What changed?” 

He paused, his body going very still before he answered, “Why do you assume something had to change?”

“I just…” He sounded so defensive, so offended. Did I say something wrong? “I didn’t mean it like that, Misha, I’m just surprised. Happy, but surprised."

Inhaling, he closed his eyes, a small smile playing across his lips as his fingers played with the candy wrapper. “Someone told me it would shorten my life.” 

“Who told you that?” I grinned,  waiting for him to say it was me.=

But instead he replied. “I told you, a friend. Oh and my doctor. I guess he finally got through to me,” he shrugged, as if all the times I told him had meant nothing. “Really, it’s not that big of a deal, Ari. Aren’t you glad?”

He’s right, I should have been happy. 

But I wasn’t. Maybe it was something in his tone, but his words felt heavy in my chest. Something felt…off. 

 “Of course I’m happy,” I replied brightly, letting the topic drop as he pulled me into his chest. 

Only for me to pull back a second later, my nose scrunched in surprise. He’s always used the same body wash, the same woodsy scent since before I knew him. My dependable, lovable husband can also be stubborn and inflexible when it comes to his everyday routines. 

“You changed your body wash?” I asked, pushing against him to clear my head from an overpoweringly herbal scent–a mix of flower and…eucalyptus? 

“Oh, it's nothing." Misha scrunched his nose, "I just picked this up from the store on the way home from work.”

Not once, in the entire time I’ve known Misha, has he ever done his own shopping. He was born rich, and even in college he had others run his errands. Now that I think of it, I don’t think he’s ever stepped foot inside a store. “Since when do you buy your own toiletries?”

His eyes flickered, just for a second, his face going blank as if thinking, before shifting into his usual, carefree smile. “There’s a new store next to the office. A coworker dragged me there during lunch. No big deal.”

His words were practical, they even made sense if they hadn’t been coming from Misha. My husband wasn’t the type of person to let anyone drag him anywhere. He’s always the one in charge, and he has no problem setting firm boundaries when he doesn’t want to do something.  I’ve gone to enough charity events and family functions alone to know that he won’t.

And now, it seems, his coworkers have somehow magically changed his disposition, just like a “friend” got him to stop smoking. 

What kind of friend did he have if he could make him suddenly change his mind when his wife never could? Could it be another woman?

No. Misha would never betray me that way. 

Something must have shown on my face, because Misha then leaned in, kissing the wrinkle between my brows. “I’m sorry,” he said, “for being in such a snappy mood. You know I’ve been stressed. Hey,” his lips perked up into a scintillating smirk, the look that always drove me absolutely mad with desire, reminding me how lucky I was to have snagged the hottest guy on campus, “why don’t we stop talking and do other things with our lips?”  

That night, we didn’t even make it to bed. We made love on the couch, our old favorite movie playing in the background, as he made me forget the budding distrust growing in my heart. 

Misha loved me. He always has. He always will.