FAZER LOGIN**LUCAS POV**I know something’s wrong the moment I see her.Serena’s sitting across from me at this little Italian place she loves, and she’s smiling, nodding at whatever I’m saying about the new acquisition, but she’s not really here. Her eyes keep drifting to her phone, to the window, anywhere but at me.She’s been like this for days now. Ever her walk in the park that she mentioned briefly, then immediately changed the subject.“Serena.” I set down my fork, reaching across the table. “Where are you right now?”She blinks, focusing on me. “What? I’m right here.”“No, you’re not. You’ve been somewhere else all evening.” I keep my voice gentle. “Talk to me.”She opens her mouth, closes it, then sighs. “I ran into Adrian. A few days ago. In the park with Clara and Ethan.”There it is. The knot that’s been sitting in my stomach tightens.“And?”“And he said things. About wanting another chance. About being different. About not wanting to watch me fall in love with someone else.” She’s
“You’re right.” Clara takes a breath, her voice softening. “Sorry, kiddo. Aunt Clara got a little heated.”“It’s okay.” Ethan looks at his father, then at me. “Dad’s been really good lately. He comes to my soccer games and helps with homework and doesn’t check his phone during dinner.”“That’s great, baby.” I smooth his hair back. “I’m really glad you two are spending time together.”“But,” Ethan continues, looking at Adrian with an expression far too serious for a nine year old, “being a good dad doesn’t mean you get to be Mom’s husband again. Those are different things.”Out of the mouths of babes.Adrian crouches down to Ethan’s level. “You’re absolutely right, buddy. And I’m not, I’m not trying to force anything. I’m just trying to show your mom that I’m sorry. That I’m different.”“Different how?” Clara interjects, unable to help herself. “Because from where I’m standing, you look like the same guy who let his mother humiliate Serena at every family gathering. The same guy who pa
**Four Days Later**{Amidst Conversation between Serena and Clara}“I’m just saying, if you end up with Adrian, I’m staging an intervention that involves wine, handcuffs, and possibly a cult deprogrammer.”I nearly spit out my latte. “Clara.”“I’m serious.” She’s walking beside me through Central Park, her arm linked through mine, designer sunglasses perched on her head even though it’s cloudy. “That man spent years making you miserable. A few therapy sessions don’t erase that.”“I know that.”“Do you? Because you’ve been weirdly quiet about the whole thing.” She squeezes my arm. “Which means you’re thinking about it. About him. And that terrifies me.”I sigh, watching a couple jog past with their dog. “I’m not thinking about getting back together with him. I’m just, processing.”“Processing what? How to say no in seventeen different languages?”“Processing whether people can actually change. Whether forgiveness is possible even when someone’s hurt you that badly.” I kick at a loose s
The doorbell rings at nine in the morning, and I seriously consider ignoring it.I’m still in my pajamas, my hair is a disaster, and I haven’t slept more than three hours. Every time I closed my eyes last night, I saw Adrian’s face, heard his voice saying *I love you* like it was a prayer and a confession all at once.The doorbell rings again. Persistent.“Mom, someone’s at the door!” Ethan yells from his room.“I know!” I yell back, shuffling toward the entrance in my fuzzy socks.I check the peephole and freeze.Lucas.Standing in my hallway with two coffee cups and a determined expression that somehow looks both adorable and terrifying.Oh God. I look like death. I’m wearing my oldest pajamas, the ones with the faded coffee stains, and I’m pretty sure there’s mascara smudged under my eyes from yesterday.“Serena, I know you’re looking through the peephole,” Lucas calls out, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “And I don’t care what you look like. Open the door.”“I’m not dressed
What if he really could be different this time?“Stop it,” I say out loud, and a passing couple gives me a weird look.I don’t care. I need to hear myself say it.“Stop rewriting history. Stop making excuses for him. Stop wondering what if. He had years, YEARS, to change. To go to therapy. To be better. And he chose not to. Every single day, he chose not to.”A woman walking her dog nods approvingly as she passes. “You tell him, honey.”I laugh, the sound slightly hysterical.My Uber pulls up. I climb in, giving my address, and lean my head against the window.The driver’s playing soft jazz, and it reminds me of Lucas. Of his steady presence. The way he makes me laugh. The way he looks at me like I’m a person, not a prize to be won or a mistake to be fixed.I pull out my phone and look at his text again.Then I scroll up to Adrian’s messages, the ones I’ve been ignoring since the dinner.**“Thank you for tonight. For listening. For giving me a chance to explain. I know I have a long w
I didn’t go home.Instead, I have the Uber drop me off at the waterfront, where the city lights reflect off the black water like broken promises. It’s cold, the kind of October night that bites through my jacket, but I need it. I need something sharp to cut through the fog in my head.I find a bench facing the water and sit.*What the hell am I doing?*The question loops in my mind, over and over, like a song I can’t turn off.Adrian loves me. He said he loves me. Correction, he said he never stopped loving me, which is somehow worse because it means all those years, all that pain, he loved me while he destroyed me. What kind of love is that? What kind of person loves someone and lets them suffer the way he let me suffer?But then I hear his voice again, broken and raw: *Hurt people hurt people. Broken people break people.*Is that an excuse? Or is it just the truth?I pull my phone out, staring at Lucas’s text from earlier. Simple. Supportive. No drama. No grand declarations. Just, *







