Loving The Wrong One

Quiana

I checked the clock for the seventh time.

11:47 p.m.

The candles on the dining table had burned down to tiny flames, their wax spilling onto the silver holders I'd chosen so carefully that morning.

Dinner was cold. The champagne was untouched.

And Zack was still not home.

I lowered my phone slowly, staring at the last message I'd sent him almost two hours ago.

*Are you coming home tonight?*

No reply.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced myself to look away.

It was our fifth wedding anniversary.

Five years.

I had spent the entire afternoon pretending it meant something.

I had gone through my closet three times before settling on the black dress hanging over the back of my chair. I had curled my hair, put on the perfume Zack once told me he liked, and spent nearly two hours preparing a dinner I knew he probably wouldn't appreciate.

I had even bought him a gift.

It was still sitting beside my plate.

A sleek silver watch.

Nothing extravagant. Just something I thought he'd actually use.

I glanced toward it, then at the empty chair opposite mine.

A bitter smile tugged at my lips.

What was I doing?

Five years should have been enough time to stop expecting things from a man who had made it perfectly clear that I was never what he wanted.

Yet here I was. Waiting again.

I pushed my chair back and stood.

My legs felt stiff after sitting for so long. I walked toward the table and picked up the champagne bottle, studying the label before putting it back.

I couldn't bring myself to open it alone.

That felt pathetic somehow.

Or maybe I was simply tired of celebrating a marriage that only existed properly on paper.

I picked up Zack's gift and carried it upstairs.

Maybe he'd come home tomorrow and I'd give it to him then.

Maybe—

I stopped myself.

I was beginning another one of those stupid little fantasies.

So I went to bed.

I didn't bother changing out of my dress.

I lay on my side, staring at the empty space beside me.

Zack hadn't slept beside me in weeks.

Not properly, anyway.

There had always been an excuse.

Work or meetings or just random late nights.

And whenever there wasn't an excuse, there was silence.

I turned my face toward the window.

The city glittered beneath the darkness, completely indifferent to the woman lying awake in a room that was supposed to belong to two people.

Eventually, exhaustion dragged me under.

*****

A loud thud downstairs jolted me awake.

My eyes flew open. Then I heard the unmistakable sound of something hitting the wall.

I sat up.

My heart began beating faster.

Zack?

I glanced at the clock.

2:18 a.m.

He was home.

I pushed myself out of bed and hurried downstairs.

The lights in the foyer were on, and Zack was standing near the entrance with one hand pressed against the wall.

His tie hung loose around his neck, his white shirt was partly unbuttoned and his hair was disheveled.

And even from several feet away, I could smell the alcohol on him.

He was drunk.

“Zack?”

His head lifted.

His eyes found mine, but there was something unfocused about them.

For a moment, he simply stared.

Then his lips parted.

“Cameron…”

My heart dropped.

Not Quiana? Or even my wife.

But Cameron?

On our anniversary?

I forced my expression to remain neutral even though something inside my chest had just cracked open.

“It's me.”

He frowned as if my voice didn't make sense.

“Cam…”

“Zack, you're drunk.”

I walked toward him.

He didn't move.

“Come upstairs. You need to sleep.”

I reached for his arm. He pulled it away.

“I thought you'd be waiting.”

I froze.

My fingers curled against my palm.

“Who?”

His eyes narrowed.

“You.”

A sad laugh almost escaped me.

“I'm right here.”

He stared at me again but I knew that look.

He wasn't really seeing me. He was seeing someone else.

Someone whose name had lived between us for five years.

“Cameron,” he murmured again.

I looked away.

“Let's just get you to bed.”

I slipped my arm around his waist and tried to guide him toward the stairs.

He was heavier than I expected, and every step was a struggle.

“Slowly.”

He mumbled something I couldn't understand.

Then, halfway to the bedroom, his foot caught the edge of the rug.

“Zack!”

His body lurched forward.

I grabbed him instinctively.

But instead of saving him, his weight dragged me down with him and we both hit the floor.

A gasp escaped me as my palms caught against the carpet.

Zack landed beneath me.

My hair had fallen over my face.

I pushed it back and looked down at him.

His breathing was slow and his eyes were half-lidded.

And suddenly, we were too close.

I could feel the warmth of his breath against my lips.

My heart began pounding.

Zack lifted one hand.

His fingers brushed a strand of hair away from my cheek.

I should have moved. I knew that.

I should have stood up, helped him to bed, and forgotten this moment ever happened.

Instead, I stayed.

His gaze softened.

“Cameron…”

That name should have pushed me away.

Instead, it reminded me of everything I had spent years trying not to want.

His affection, attention and warmth.

Things I had once believed would eventually belong to me simply because I was his wife.

They never did. Until now.

Zack's fingers slipped gently beneath my chin.

Then he kissed me.

My entire body went still.

His lips were warm against mine, tasting faintly of whiskey.

For one heartbeat, I couldn't breathe.

Then I closed my eyes.

I knew It was wrong. So terribly wrong.

Because I knew who he thought I was.

But when his hand settled against my waist and pulled me closer, every lonely night I'd spent beside him seemed to crash into me at once.

I had wanted this.

God, how many times had I imagined Zack kissing me like he actually wanted me?

How many times had I wondered what it would feel like to be the woman he reached for?

My eyes stung.

I shouldn't. I knew I shouldn't.

But when he kissed me again, slower this time, I stopped fighting myself.

My fingers curled into his shirt and his arm tightened around my waist.

The kiss deepened, and a shiver traveled through me.

For once, I wasn't thinking about the woman who had always stood between us.

I wasn't thinking about the years of rejection or the cruel words or the empty rooms.

For those few stolen moments, I let myself pretend.

Pretend that Zack was kissing me.

Not Cameron.

He shifted beneath me, pulling me closer until there was barely any space between us.

His lips moved from mine to my cheek, then back again, and I felt tears gather at the corners of my eyes.

It was absurd.

I was crying while being kissed by my own husband.

But perhaps that was what made it hurt so much.

I had waited five years for tenderness.

And the first time Zack gave it to me, he didn't even know who he was holding.

I pressed my forehead against his.

“Zack…”

His eyes opened.

For the briefest second, I thought he might finally see me. Really see me.

His hand came up to my face.

He smiled faintly.

Then he whispered the name that shattered whatever fragile illusion I had built around us.

“Cameron…”