Chapter 5

ESMERALDA’S POV

Lila’s apartment feels too small for the mess inside my head.

The moment Lila closes the door behind us, my body gives up.

I don’t even make it to the couch. My bag slips from my shoulder and lands somewhere near the wall as I sink to the floor, my back pressed against the door like I’m holding something out. Or maybe holding myself together.

The silence is thick here. No footsteps in another room. No phone buzzing on a counter. No reminder that I’m unwanted in my own home.

I press my forehead to my knees and breathe. In. Out. Slow. Careful.

Leaving didn’t feel dramatic. It felt necessary. Like staying one more night would have hollowed me out completely.

I’ve been here since last night, curled up on her couch with a blanket I don’t remember pulling over myself. The city hums outside her windows, distant and uncaring, while I replay the same questions over and over again.

How did we get here?

When did my marriage turn into something so fragile?

“You’re doing that thing again,” Lila says from the kitchen.

“What thing?”

“The staring into space like you’re about

to spiral thing.”

She brings me a mug of tea and drops onto the armchair across from me. Her eyes soften when she looks at me, and that somehow makes everything worse.

“I just don’t understand,” I whisper. “I keep thinking if I give him space, if I stop pushing, maybe things will calm down.”

Lila snorts. “Esme, you’ve been giving him space. He’s the one who moved into his office like it was a second home.”

I wrap my hands around the mug. “He’s under pressure. Work has been… intense. Maybe I haven’t been fair.”

“Fair?” Her brows shoot up. “You lost a baby and your husband checked out emotionally. How is that you being unfair?”

I don’t answer.

She leans forward. “Let me ask you something, and I want you to be honest. Aren’t you tired?”

“Tired of what?”

“Tired of begging your own husband for attention. Tired of feeling like you’re an inconvenience in your own marriage.”

The words sting because they hit too close to something I’ve been avoiding.

“I love him,” I say quietly.

“I know you do. But love isn’t supposed to feel like this.” She pauses. “Have you ever tried just… pulling back? Not leaving. Just… taking it easy. Letting him come to you.”

I swallow. “What if he doesn’t?”

Lila’s voice gentles. “Then at least you’ll know.”

“When was the last time you felt… happy with him?” Lila asks quietly.

I open my mouth to answer, then stop.

My mind scrambles, flipping through memories like pages stuck together. Dinners eaten alone. Promises postponed. Apologies that came too late or not at all.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” I say quickly. “He’s under pressure. Anyone would be distant.”

Lila tilts her head. “You always say that. You defend him like it’s your job.”

The words sting because they’re true.

Somewhere along the line, loving Julian became work. Quiet, exhausting work I never complained about because I thought that’s what good wives did.

Standing outside the apartment building later, I hesitate.

My reflection stares back at me from the glass doors—tired eyes, tight mouth, a woman bracing herself for something she can’t name yet.

I consider turning around. Going back to Lila’s. Pretending tonight doesn’t exist.

But avoidance has never saved me before.

I straighten my shoulders and step inside.

I go back to the apartment later that evening.

The place is quiet when I step inside, too quiet for a home that’s supposed to be shared. I kick off my shoes and move carefully, like I’m afraid of disturbing something fragile.

My body still feels foreign to me heavy in some places, empty in others. I move carefully, aware of a dull ache that hasn’t quite gone away.

Healing, they said.

It doesn’t feel like healing. It feels like surviving.

I hear voices coming from the living room.

Julian’s voice.

And another one.

Celeste.

I stop before I even realize I’m doing it.

“…this situation can’t continue,” Celeste is saying, her tone sharp with irritation. “It’s uncomfortable for everyone involved.”

Julian sighs. “I know.”

My heart begins to pound.

“She’s emotional, fragile, and frankly, inconvenient right now,” Celeste continues. “This is exactly why I warned you. You need stability. Not… complications.”

“Inconvenient,” Julian repeats quietly.

“We’ve discussed this,” she presses. “Vivienne will be back in the city soon. It makes no sense to keep dragging this out.”

My breath catches.

“Vivienne?” Julian asks.

“Yes. Vivienne.” Celeste sounds pleased. “Her children adore you. She understands what’s required of a man like you. And she’s willing to step into this role properly.”

There’s a pause.

A long one.

“We can’t just throw Esmeralda out,” Julian says eventually.

“Of course not,” his mother replies smoothly. “We’ll handle it cleanly. Discreetly. Give her time to adjust. A settlement. Something generous so she leaves quietly.”

Leaves.

Quietly.

“As soon as Vivienne returns,” Celeste adds, “we’ll need the apartment ready. It’s only temporary that Esmeralda is still there.”

Something inside me fractures.

My body still feels foreign to me heavy in some places, empty in others. I move carefully, aware of a dull ache that hasn’t quite gone away.

Healing, they said.

It doesn’t feel like healing. It feels like surviving.

I back away slowly, my body moving before my mind can catch up. I slip out the door without making a sound, my chest tight, my hands shaking.

So this is it.

Not confusion.

Not distance.

Not grief.

A plan.

That night, I lie awake in the bedroom that no longer feels like mine, staring at the ceiling.

Julian isn’t confused about us.

He’s already decided.

And the worst part?

He didn’t even have the courage to tell me himself.

The apartment eventually goes quiet. No doors opening. No footsteps down the hall. No sign that he’s thinking about me at all.

I turn onto my side and sink deeper into the mattress, suddenly aware of how unfamiliar the bed feels beneath me. The sheets smell faintly of his cologne and something else—distance, maybe.

I lie there knowing, with a strange and aching certainty, that this might be the last night I ever sleep in this bed.

I replay the conversation again and again, searching for a version where I misunderstood. Where I imagined it.

But the words don’t change.

I don’t cry this time. I just stare into the darkness, feeling something inside me go very still.

Tomorrow, I’ll face whatever comes next.

Tonight, I let myself grieve a marriage that ended long before I was brave enough to leave the bed.