My Husband's Attention

I must be out of my mind. Kissing a man I met two weeks ago, under a snow-covered tree, while my husband might be searching for me.

Or maybe not. Edgar De Villiers is always too busy—too busy to notice me, too busy to even acknowledge our wedding anniversary.

I am Jeanne Blanchard, married to Edgar for five years. Our life once seemed perfect, until everything changed. He grows distant, cold. I leave, lost in confusion, searching for something—someone—else.

Hector. The man I help near my house, never expecting it to lead here.

"Should we go in?" he asks, pointing at a hotel with his glance.

"I'm going home."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. We've gone too far—"

"Do you think your husband is looking for you?" His words cut through me. "You fought with him, yet you expect him to chase after you? I understand—you’ve loved him for five years without pause."

I stay silent. Hector leans in, his lips brushing my neck as he whispers, "But I expect you to look for me when you're upset with him. Just like now."

This is an affair, and I know it. But how can I resist when I've been starving for warmth? Still, my remaining sense pushes me to step back.

"We shouldn't be doing this. I'm going home."

Hector smiles faintly. "You say that, but you came to me on your own. You fell into my arms." His fingers trace my cheek as he murmurs, "I was just waiting for you to undress yourself for me, Mrs. Villiers..."

Presumptuous. Reckless. Offering an affair as if it’s a mere strategy to win my husband’s attention.

He kisses my hand before letting me go. Guilt weighs down each step as I force myself to walk away. But on my fifth step, I freeze, looking at someone before me.

"Edgar..."

Shock paralyzes me. My body feels electrocuted, my legs weak beneath me. Edgar stands before me, snow clinging to his shoulders as if he has been standing there all night. He has seen everything. And Hector—still behind me—has known he was there all along.

"Edgar, I—"

He says nothing, just grabs my hand with a crushing grip and leads me to the car. I stay silent the entire ride, my hands trembling. My mind scrambles for an excuse, but the coldness in Edgar’s face sends chills down my spine.

At home, I hurry to keep up with his long strides. The house is vast, empty, and tense. He throws his coat onto the sofa with a loud thud and heads for the kitchen.

"Edgar, please listen," I call out. "I can explain—"

Glass shatters against the wall behind me. I flinch, my voice dying in my throat. Edgar stands by the sink, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.

"If I wanted an explanation," he says, voice tight with restrained anger, "what would you even say? I saw everything."

He laughs—bitter, hollow.

"I almost embarrassed myself, Jeanne. Sent my men to find my missing wife… only for them to discover her in the arms of another man."

"Edgar, I'm sorry. I—I wasn’t thinking."

"I don’t need your apology. But for the time I wasted worrying about you? Maybe you should apologize for that." His eyes darken. "I followed my gut, only to find my wife cheating on me. Meanwhile, I have real responsibilities—lives to improve, cases to solve. Instead, I wasted my time on this."

"Am I not more important than your work?"

"Do you really want an answer to that?" He scoffs. "Should I neglect my work to babysit my unfaithful wife?"

"That’s not what I meant! But tell me, Edgar—was I ever more important than your work? Even once?" My voice cracks, frustration boiling over. "You came home because you caught me cheating. But if I hadn’t, would you have ever come home? Would you have even remembered you had a wife?"

"Are you justifying what you did?"

"No! But this is something I’ve wanted to ask for years! Do you still love me?"

Edgar stiffens.

"Do you still feel like we’re married?" I press. "Because I haven’t felt that way since we lost our baby."

Silence. His expression hardens.

"You shut me out," I whisper. "You didn’t comfort me. You turned cold, distant—like you blamed me, just like your family did."

Edgar averts his gaze, unwilling to face me. I grab his arm, forcing him to look at me.

"Say something, Edgar!"

"I have nothing to say, Jeanne," he bites out. "If you want to drag this out to avoid talking about your affair, fine. You win. I’ll shut up and play the fool."

"That’s not what I want! If you want to shame me, go ahead. Tell everyone I kissed another man. But then I get to blame you for the last three years of hell!"

His eyes flash. "Hell?"

"Yes, Edgar. The hell of losing our child. The hell of you shutting me out. You let me suffer alone while doctors told me I’d never conceive again!"

His jaw clenches, but he has no rebuttal. For the first time, I see something beneath his cold exterior—pain he refuses to acknowledge.

Tears fall again, blurring my vision as I look at Edgar. My pain feels deeper than his—unspoken, unacknowledged.

"You didn’t suffer alone these past three years, Jeanne. Stop using that pain to justify your mistakes!"

"You condemn me for what I did, but who takes responsibility for my suffering? I give up my dream job, live in an empty palace because you want it. But where are you, Edgar? You stay silent when your family blames me for our baby’s death. You stay silent when they shun me like I’m a burden. You bury yourself in work while I spend every year hoping—begging—for one day where we could fix this. And you never care!"

I hurl a framed picture against the wall, shattering it—just like the dreams I had when I first put it up.

"You don’t even resist when they try to set you up with other women. You know I hear the rumors, know I listen to their whispers about you and her. And you do nothing. Do you not care, or do you like her?"

"Don’t be ridiculous, Jeanne. Who has the affair here? You, not me."

"I DO IT BECAUSE I WISH IT WAS YOU, EDGAR!"

Silence. Edgar freezes.

"I want you to hold me. You to talk to me. You to see me. But I end up looking for those things in another man. Do you understand now? Do you see how much I want you to be by my side? That’s all I ever want, Edgar..."

My strength gives out, and I collapse onto the cold kitchen floor. But even then—like a fool—I still hope he will come and hold me.

He doesn’t.

He walks past me, leaves without a word. The door slams shut, the sound cutting through me like a final, merciless blow.

I have been wrong to think we could fix this.

And I am even more wrong to think that the news of my pregnancy will bring him back.