3. A LONELY NIGHT

CHAPTER THREE: A LONELY NIGHT

Do you know what sucks more than your husband getting a PR crisis on your anniversary night? It’s knowing your best friend is miles away on a different continent, and asleep. I glance at the clock on my phone. It’s nearly four in the morning wherever she is, and I know she’ll be waking up soon for work. It would be rude to call her now, even though I’m desperate to hear her voice, to have someone to vent to, someone who gets it. I miss her so much.

So, here I am, sitting on the terrace, staring out at the beach. The soft crash of the waves and the salty breeze do little to soothe the restlessness bubbling in my chest. A half-empty bottle of wine sits next to me, and I lazily twirl the glass in my hand, watching the liquid catch the light from the string of fairy lights overhead. 

Inside, the ball is still in full swing. The sound of distant laughter and clinking glasses filters out through the open doors. For a second, I stare at the entrance hoping that I’d see him walk in. Mark hasn’t returned yet—it’s been almost an hour now—and I’m bored the fuck out of my mind. 

In an effort to distract myself, I pull out my phone and open the gallery, scrolling through the photos stored there. They are snippets of our lives both in front of the camera and behind the scenes. There are several candid moments, professional shots, and, of course, the glamorous Page Six article from earlier in the year where we were dubbed a “power couple.” It’s surreal sometimes, seeing the way the public eats up our story. They love us. Every tabloid, every glossy feature piece—they can’t get enough. 

We’ve had to turn down quite a few interviews recently. 

“It’s a good strategy,” my mother-in-law had said over tea one afternoon. “Keep them wanting more. Stay relevant, but maintain an air of exclusivity. The balance is key.” 

She’s right, of course. The Washingtons are both a public and private family, walking that tightrope with precision. But sometimes, it feels like I’m stuck in the middle, trying to remember where the real us ends and the polished, public version begins. The only tether that keeps me from losing my mind is knowing that what Mark and I have is real.

I smile when I stumble across an old photo of Mark and me back in college. He’d decided to try a buzz cut, convinced it would make him look rugged and edgy. It didn’t. Instead, he spent three long weeks sulking and refusing to leave our apartment until his hair grew back enough to look like him again. I remember teasing him mercilessly about it, snapping that photo just to have proof of the phase he’d rather forget. 

Those were the simpler times, weren’t they? Back when the biggest worry in our lives was passing exams and deciding where to grab takeout. No glitzy parties, no business crises, no making appearances. Just us. 

I lean back in the chair, gazing out at the dark expanse of the ocean, the photo still glowing on my phone screen. I miss that version of us sometimes—the unfiltered, unpolished, perfectly imperfect us. 

With a sigh, I take another sip of wine, letting the bittersweet memories wash over me like the waves on the shore. Mark will be back soon, I tell myself. He always comes back. 

I must have fallen asleep while waiting for him to come back. The last thing I remember is the soft crash of the waves and the cool breeze brushing against my skin as I sipped my wine. The next time I open my eyes, I’m lying in our bed, the familiar scent of linen and his cologne surrounding me. Morning light streams through the beige curtains, casting golden patterns on the walls. 

I blink groggily, trying to shake off the haze of sleep, and turn to my side. The other half of the bed is empty, the sheets cool to the touch. My brow furrows as I sit up, glancing around the room. 

Before I can call out, the door creaks open, and my husband walks in with a wide smile on his face. He’s shirtless, his tousled hair suggesting he’s been up for a while, and in his hands is a breakfast tray piled with all my favorites: fluffy pancakes drizzled with syrup, scrambled eggs, fresh fruit, and a steaming cup of coffee. 

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he says with a soft smile, his voice warm and teasing. 

I can’t help but smile back, though I try to keep the frown on my face. “What time is it? And why aren’t you in bed?” 

He chuckles, setting the tray down carefully on the nightstand. “It’s almost nine. I figured you could use the extra rest after last night.” 

“Last night?” I raise an eyebrow. “You mean the part where you disappeared for hours after you promised you’d be back?” 

His smile falters slightly, guilt flickering in his eyes. “Yeah, about that... I’m sorry, Gina. I didn’t mean to leave you hanging for so long. Things got more complicated than I expected I mean, its all solved now.” He sits down on the edge of the bed, his hand reaching for mine. 

I want to stay mad, but the way he looks at me so earnestly apologetic, melts my resolve. “You could’ve at least sent a text.” 

“I know,” he says, squeezing my hand. “I messed up. But I figured breakfast in bed might help me make it up to you.” 

I glance at the tray, the smell of syrup and coffee wafting toward me, and let out a soft laugh. “You’re lucky I like pancakes.” 

His grin widens, and he leans in to press a kiss to my forehead. “Lucky doesn’t even begin to cover it.” 

As he sits beside me, pouring coffee and handing me a fork, I can’t help but feel the warmth of the moment. Despite the chaos of last night, this is what matters—these quiet, intimate moments where it’s just the two of us. 

“Next year,” I say, taking a bite of pancake, “no parties, no business, no interruptions. Just you and me. Deal?” 

He raises his coffee cup in a toast, his smile soft and full of love. “Deal.” 

And just like that, I forget about yesterday. I mean, everyday does feel anniversary when I’m with him.