16. Ethan’s Confession

Ethan's POV

I’m drunk.

Not the fun kind. Not the loose laugh kind. The heavy kind. The kind where the room tilts a little even when you’re sitting still and your thoughts feel like they’re wading through mud.

The mansion is quiet. Too quiet. It always is now. Sound doesn’t bounce the same when she’s not here. Lena used to fill the spaces without trying. Soft footsteps. Drawers opening. Music playing from her phone while she cooked like she didn’t care if anyone was listening.

I’m sitting on the floor of the living room with my back against the couch, a half empty bottle sweating onto the marble beside me. I don’t remember sitting down here. I just remember pouring. And pouring again. And thinking if I drank enough, maybe my head would shut the hell up.

It didn’t.

All I can see is her face that night. Shocked. Pale. Like the floor had disappeared under her feet and she was still waiting to hit something solid.

She didn’t cry right away.

That’s the part that keeps stabbing me in the chest.

If she had screamed. If she had denied it loudly. If she had fought me. I could have clung to that. But she didn’t. She just looked at me like I was someone she didn’t recognize anymore.

I rub my face hard with both hands. My palms smell like whiskey and regret.

Why didn’t I ask her.

That question loops in my head like a broken song. Why didn’t I just ask her if it was true. Why didn’t I sit her down. Why didn’t I say Lena, talk to me.

She was always loving. Always. Even on the bad days. Even when I was short with her. Even when I came home late and distracted and half here. She still reached for me like I mattered.

I take another drink. It burns. Good. I deserve that.

There’s a knock at the door.

I frown at it like it’s an insult.

I didn’t call anyone. I didn’t want anyone.

The knock comes again. Louder this time.

“Go away,” I mutter.

The door opens anyway.

Ryan steps in first, like he owns the place. He scans the room, his eyes landing on me, on the bottle, on the mess I probably look like.

“Jesus,” he says. “You look like shit.”

“Nice to see you too,” I slur.

He sighs and sets a bag down on the counter. “You can’t keep doing this.”

“I can,” I say. “Watch me.”

He ignores that and pours something into a glass. Water maybe. Juice. I don’t really care. He hands it to me.

“Drink this,” he says. “Slow down.”

I take it. I don’t even question it. That’s how tired I am. I swallow half of it in one go. It tastes off. Bitter under the sweetness. I wrinkle my nose.

“What the hell is that.”

“Just drink,” he says quickly. Too quickly.

I finish it anyway.

A few minutes pass. Or maybe more. Time gets fuzzy. My limbs feel heavier. Like gravity just doubled for fun.

“Ryan,” I mumble. “Something’s wrong.”

He crouches in front of me. His face is too calm. “You’re drunk. That’s what’s wrong.”

The room tilts harder. My head feels thick. Wrong. Not just drunk.

The front door opens again.

I hear heels.

My stomach drops before I even see her.

Maya.

She steps in like she belongs here. Like this was always her place to walk into. Her eyes soften when she sees me on the floor. Too soft. Fake soft.

“Oh Ethan,” she says gently. “You scared me.”

“What is she doing here,” I ask, trying to sit up. My arms shake. Fuck. That’s not good.

Ryan stands. “She came to help.”

“I didn’t ask for help,” I snap.

Maya kneels beside me. Her hand reaches for my arm. I jerk away.

“Don’t touch me.”

Her lips tremble. She always was good at that. “You’re not yourself right now.”

“I’m exactly myself,” I growl. “Drunk. Miserable. Still not yours.”

Ryan’s jaw tightens. “Enough.”

Maya ignores him and moves closer anyway. I can smell her perfume. It makes my head pound.

“You don’t have to be alone,” she whispers. “Lena left. You need someone.”

That name slices through me.

“Don’t say her name.”

Maya’s hand slides up my chest. I grab her wrist weakly but with everything I have left.

“Stop,” I say. “Stop trying to crawl into her place.”

Her eyes flash. Just for a second. Then the softness comes back.

“You deserve comfort,” she says.

“I deserve my wife,” I snap.

Ryan steps in. “Ethan, you divorced her.”

“I know,” I shout. My voice cracks. “I know what I did.”

Maya leans in closer, her mouth near my ear. “I’m here now.”

Something in me snaps.

I shove her back. Harder than I meant to, but I don’t regret it.

“Get the fuck off me,” I slur. “You are not my fucking wife.”

The words echo in the room.

Maya stumbles back, shocked. Real this time. Her eyes fill with tears but I don’t care.

“Lena is my wife,” I say. “Even if she’s gone. Even if I ruined it. You don’t get that title. Ever.”

Ryan swears under his breath. “You’re making a mistake.”

I laugh. It’s ugly. “I already made it. The biggest one of my life.”

My head spins. I feel sick. I brace myself on the couch, breathing hard.

“I shouldn’t have listened,” I say, staring at the floor. “I should have trusted her. She loved me. She always did.”

Maya shakes her head. “She cheated.”

“No,” I whisper. “You said she did. You showed me things. But I never heard it from her.”

Ryan crosses his arms. “You’re drunk and emotional.”

“Yeah,” I say. “And sober me is going to hate what drunk me did. But drunk me still knows one thing.”

I look up at them. At Ryan. At Maya.

“I loved my wife,” I say. “And I still do.”

Maya’s face hardens. “Then you’re a fool.”

“Maybe,” I shrug. “But I’m not yours.”

She looks at Ryan. Something silent passes between them. Something I don’t like.

Ryan sighs. “We should go.”

Maya hesitates, then turns back to me. “You’ll regret this.”

I close my eyes. “I already do.”

They leave. The door shuts. The house swallows the sound.

I slide down onto the floor again, my strength gone.

“I’m sorry, Lena,” I whisper to the empty room. “I should have asked. I should have fought for you.”

The bottle tips over. Whiskey spills across the marble like a stain that won’t wash out.

Neither will this.

I pass out with her name on my lips, the mansion holding my regret like it’s always been there, waiting.