Chapter 31

My Cheating Mate

Emma pov

The coffee shop was warm and familiar, a place I'd come to dozens of times before everything fell apart. Jeremy sat across from me at a corner table, his hands wrapped around a glass of water instead of the coffee he used to drink black with two sugars.

He looked terrible. Thinner than he'd been even after the hospital stay. Dark circles under his eyes that suggested he wasn't sleeping. His clothes hung a little loose, like he'd been forgetting to eat.

Guilt twisted in my stomach. I'd been so focused on my own pain, my own healing, that I hadn't really looked at him. Really seen what the past few months had done to him.

"You're not sleeping," I said, not a question.

He glanced up, surprised. "Not well. The house is—" He stopped. "I've been staying at my office most nights. Working late. It's easier than going home."

"To the house we shared."

"Yeah." He looked down at his water. "Everything there reminds me of you. Of what I destroyed. Some days I can handle it. Other days I just—can't."

I wanted to be angry. Wanted to tell him that he didn't get to be the victim here, that his discomfort was nothing compared to what I'd been through.

But looking at him—really looking at him—I saw someone who was drowning in guilt and self-loathing. Someone who was punishing himself far more effectively than I ever could.

"You need to take care of yourself," I said finally. "Skipping meals, not sleeping—that's not healing, Jeremy. That's self-destruction."

"I know. Dr. Chen says the same thing." A bitter smile. "She calls it 'maladaptive coping mechanisms.' I call it getting what I deserve."

"Stop that." My voice came out sharper than I intended. "You don't get to martyr yourself. Don't get to slowly destroy yourself and call it penance."

His eyes met mine, surprised by the vehemence in my tone.

"I'm serious," I continued. "If we're going to do this—if we're going to try to heal and move forward—then you need to actually be here. Not some guilt-ridden shell who's punishing himself instead of doing the work."

"I am doing the work," he protested weakly.

"Are you? Or are you just going through the motions while you slowly waste away?" I leaned forward. "Jeremy, I can't heal with you if you're not actually present. If you're too busy hating yourself to engage with what's happening between us."

He was quiet for a long moment. Then: "You're right. I've been—stuck. In the guilt. In feeling like I don't deserve to heal or be happy or move forward. And it's easier to stay stuck than to actually try."

"Why?"

"Because trying means risking failure," he admitted. "If I stay stuck in guilt, at least I can tell myself I'm suffering appropriately for what I did. But if I actually try to heal, try to change, and I still can't be what you need—" His voice broke. "That would mean I'm just fundamentally broken. That there's no fixing me."

The vulnerability in his words made my chest ache. Because I understood that fear. The terror that you're too damaged, too broken, that no amount of work will make you whole again.

"We're both broken," I said quietly. "You broke me when you betrayed me. And you broke yourself in the process. But Jeremy, breaking doesn't mean unfixable."

"Doesn't it?"

"No." I reached across the table, my hand hovering over his but not quite touching. "It means we have to work harder. Have to be more intentional. Have to actually commit to healing instead of just talking about it."

He looked at my hand, then at my face. "I want to commit. I want to be better. I just don't know how."

"Start by taking care of yourself. Eating regular meals. Sleeping in an actual bed. Doing the journal exercises Dr. Chen assigns instead of staring at blank pages." I paused. "And maybe—maybe stop avoiding the house. Or if you can't handle being there, consider moving somewhere else. Somewhere that doesn't have all those memories."

"I can't leave that house," he said immediately. "It's the last place we were happy together. If I leave, it feels like giving up."

"But you're not living there," I pointed out. "You're sleeping at your office. So you've already left, you're just not admitting it."

He flinched but couldn't argue.

"What time is your council meeting?" I asked, changing the subject before we got too deep into territory neither of us was ready for.

"Nine. About an hour." He took a sip of water. "They're going to vote on Vanessa's sentence. The trial concluded last week while I was—" He gestured vaguely at himself. "While I was a mess."

"And what do you think they'll decide?"

"Execution," he said flatly. "She hired rogues to attack pack members. Led an assault that killed seven wolves. Tried to murder the future Luna. Pack law is clear on the punishment for those crimes."

I should have felt something at hearing Vanessa would likely be executed. Satisfaction, maybe. Justice. But all I felt was tired.

"How do you feel about that?" I asked.

Jeremy was quiet for a moment. "Relieved," he admitted. "Is that wrong? To feel relieved that someone I once—that Vanessa is going to die?"

"I don't think it's wrong. I feel relieved too." I wrapped my hands around my coffee mug. "She tried to kill me, Jeremy. Multiple times. She orchestrated attacks that killed pack members. She doesn't get to keep existing in the world after that."

"Part of me feels guilty," he said. "Like I created this. Like if I hadn't had the affair, hadn't led her on, she wouldn't have become so—"

"No." I cut him off. "Jeremy, you're responsible for your choices. For the affair, for the lying, for the betrayal. But you're not responsible for Vanessa hiring assassins and leading a pack assault. Those were her choices. Her crimes."

"Dr. Chen said something similar. That I can't take responsibility for her actions, only my own." He looked at me. "But Emma, my actions created the situation that pushed her to—"

"Stop." I was firm now. "Vanessa made her own choices. Yes, you hurt her. Yes, you led her on. But plenty of people get hurt in relationships and they don't hire killers. They don't orchestrate mass murder. That's on her, not you."

He nodded slowly, but I could see he didn't quite believe it. The guilt was too deeply ingrained.

"The council will vote today," he continued. "If they choose execution, it'll be carried out within the week. Quick and clean. More mercy than she deserves, honestly."

"Will you have to be there? At the execution?"

"As future Alpha, yes. I'll need to witness it." He looked sick at the thought. "Emma, I know she deserves it. I know she tried to kill you. But the idea of watching someone I once—someone I knew—die because of decisions I influenced—"

"You didn't influence her to become a murderer," I said again, more gently this time. "Jeremy, I understand feeling guilty. You're drowning in guilt about everything. But this? This specific thing? You didn't cause this."

"Maybe if I'd ended things with her sooner. If I'd been honest about choosing you—"

"Maybe she still would have snapped. Maybe she would have hired rogues anyway. Maybe she would have found another excuse." I finally bridged the gap between us, taking his hand. "You can't what-if yourself into circles. She made her choices. Now she faces the consequences."

His hand trembled in mine. "When did you get so wise?"

"Two months of therapy will do that to you." A small smile. "That and my father's been giving me pep talks. Telling me I need to stop letting you shoulder all the blame for everything that's ever gone wrong."

"Your father is talking to you about me?" Jeremy sounded surprised.

"He wants me to be happy. He's not thrilled with you, but he's accepted that I'm choosing to try to work through this." I paused. "He also said that watching you slowly destroy yourself isn't punishment—it's just more trauma for me to process."

"He's right." Jeremy squeezed my hand gently. "I haven't thought about how my self-destruction affects you. I've been so focused on my own guilt that I didn't consider—" He stopped. "That's selfish too, isn't it? Even my guilt is selfish."

"A little bit, yeah." But I said it gently. "Jeremy, healing isn't about punishment. It's about growth. About becoming someone who won't make the same mistakes."

"And if I can't? If I'm too broken to become that person?"

"Then we'll deal with that when we come to it. But you won't know unless you actually try. Really try, not just go through the motions while hating yourself."

He was quiet, processing. Then: "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For calling yesterday. For meeting me here. For—" He gestured between us. "For still trying. Even when I look at you with these dead eyes and you have every reason to walk away."

"I'm trying because I want to," I said. "Not because I think I have to, or because I feel sorry for you. Because somewhere under all this trauma and pain, I still believe we could be something good. Something real."

"I believe that too," he whispered. "On my good days. On my bad days, I think I've destroyed us too completely to ever fix it."

"Then we work on having more good days than bad ones." I glanced at my phone. "You should probably head to your meeting. Don't want to be late."

"Right." He stood reluctantly, clearly not wanting this moment to end. "Emma? Can we do this again? Coffee, talking, just—being together without the weight of therapy?"

"Yeah," I said, surprising myself with how much I meant it. "I'd like that."

"Tomorrow?"

"I have training with the young wolves tomorrow. But Friday?"

"Friday works." A small smile crossed his face—the first genuine smile I'd seen in weeks. "Thank you again. For this. For not giving up."

After he left, I sat with my coffee and tried to understand what I was feeling.

It wasn't forgiveness. Not yet. The hurt was still too raw, the anger still too present.

But it was something. A softening, maybe. A willingness to see him as a whole person instead of just the man who'd betrayed me.

He was broken. I was broken. And maybe—just maybe—we could heal together instead of separately.

Or maybe we'd try and fail and have to walk away.

But at least we were trying.

And that was more than I'd thought possible four months ago when I'd walked in on him with Vanessa.

My phone buzzed. A text from my father: "Council voted. Execution scheduled for Monday. Vanessa Quinn will face justice for her crimes."

I read the message twice, waiting for some emotional reaction. Relief. Satisfaction. Something.

But all I felt was tired.

Vanessa would die. Jeremy would watch. And then maybe—finally—we could start to move forward without her shadow hanging over everything.

Maybe Monday would be a new beginning.

Or maybe it would just be another painful step in the long journey of healing.

Either way, we'd face it.

Together.

For now, that was enough.