Chapter 6: Breaking

Evelyn’s P.O.V

He came in like nothing had happened just that steady, polished calm that always made my skin itch. I was at the vanity, wiping off the last bit of mascara, when he leaned down and pressed a kiss against my cheek. His lips were warm, too warm, and for a second I almost leaned into it before I caught the scent that came with him something soft, sugary, expensive, and completely unfamiliar.

“Didn’t think you’d still be awake,” he murmured.

“I couldn’t sleep, and you’re home earlier than usual “ I told him, watching him through the mirror.

He smiled, that same practiced curve of his mouth he used on reporters, the kind that said everything was under control. “You should try. Long day.”

He moved through the room like someone perfectly at ease with being adored. Talking about schedules, donors, a dinner he’d been invited to. His voice was steady, the kind that made everyone believe him. He loosened his tie and shrugged out of his jacket, started talking about the interview, the donors, how the campaign team was panicking again, and how everything was under control. His voice was steady, casual. But when he leaned close to brush his hand along the back of my neck, I saw it just below the collar of his shirt, a faint mark, glossy and red against the white fabric.

My breath caught for a second. I blinked, trying to make sure it wasn’t a trick of the light. But no it was there. Small but very visible. A kiss stain

He walked to the bed, unbuttoning his shirt as he went. “Don’t forget we have the fundraiser next week,” he said, still in that calm, detached tone. He tossed the shirt on the bed and disappeared into the bathroom. The sound of running water followed, distant and constant.

I stood. The mirror behind me showed a woman too still, too composed.

I didn’t move at first. I just sat there, looking at the shirt lying where he’d left it, the faint imprint of his cologne drifting through the room. Then I stood, slowly, crossed over, and picked it up. My reflection didn’t move when I reached for the shirt. The fabric was warm from his skin. It smelled faintly of perfume something powdery, something young.

The lipstick was darker than mine. Mine was nude, soft, subtle. This one was bold red like wine, red like a dare. I ran my thumb over it, almost gently. It felt wrong to touch it, but I couldn’t help it. The scent on it was sweet, heavy. Perfume. Someone else’s perfume.

He kept talking. I couldn’t hear a word.

I rubbed my thumb over the mark. It didn’t smudge. It was set.

He’d been kissed recently. The room tilted for a moment. Then anger found me quiet, focused, like a blade sliding home.

The bathroom door opened. Steam rolled out. He came out drying his hands, towel slung over his shoulders. He stopped when he saw me holding the shirt.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice still gentle.

I didn’t answer. I lifted the shirt higher.

His eyes flicked from me to the stain. He hesitated, then smiled the way he did when correcting a junior staffer. “That? Probably makeup. From the crew. I hugged a few people today.”

It was almost impressive, how smooth the lie sounded. If there was ever an award for best liar in the world , I’d vote for him.

I felt something twist in my chest. “Do you think I’m stupid?” I said, but even to my own ears it sounded too calm.

He sighed, the sound sharp, impatient. “Christ, here we go again.”

“Here we go again?” I said, louder now. “Alfred,

I don’t wear that color.”

“Evelyn, don’t start. You’re tired. You..”

“Don’t start?” I repeated. My voice cracked slightly, a tremor he caught. “There’s lipstick on your shirt.”

“Evelyn.” His tone went flat. “You’re tired. You’re being dramatic again. You do this every time.”

“Every time?” My laugh cracked in my throat. “Every time I find proof that you’re lying to me? That’s when I ‘do this,’ right?”

He ran a hand through his hair, sighing. “You’re making something out of nothing.”

“Something out of nothing?” My voice trembled, broke, then rose again. “There’s another woman’s lipstick on your shirt, Alfred. How else am I supposed to react?”

He exhaled, long and patient. “Don’t raise your voice.”

That did it.

“Don’t…?” I laughed, soft, incredulous. “You cheat, and I’m the one who has to mind my tone , so my reaction is the problem now?”

“Just talk like a normal human being,” he said, quieter now, trying to sound reasonable. That’s what he was best at sounding reasonable while I burned.

I stepped closer. The shirt dangled between us. “No, really,” I said, shaking the shirt at him. “You don’t want me to raise my voice at you, but you keep mocking me. How else am I supposed to react, Alfred? Oh - maybe I should get down on one knee like the traditional wife you want me to be and ask, dear husband, why is there a lipstick stain on your fucking shirt? Is that what you want?”

He flinched, then straightened. “Watch your language.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

He looked at me like I was mad for nothing. Then blinked. “You’re losing it.”

I was. But not the way he meant. Something inside me had started cracking open a space I hadn’t felt in years. It wasn’t sadness this time. It was fury. Slow, clean, and terrifying.

I would have said more, but a small sound behind me stopped everything.

“Mom?”

Clara. Barefoot, half-asleep, clutching her stuffed bear like she still did when she thought no one was looking. Her voice was small. “Is everything okay?”

My hand flew behind me, hiding the shirt. “No problem, baby. Go back to bed.”

She looked from me to her father. Confused.

“Come here, sweetheart,” Alfred said, his tone instantly softened, coated in honey.

She obeyed. He crouched beside her, murmured something soothing, a gentle hand over her shoulder.

“Mommy’s just having a little meltdown, everything’s fine.”

The way he said it made my teeth ache. Like I was something fragile. He hugged her. “Want me to help put you back to sleep like old times?”

She nodded, sleepy, resting her head against his shoulder.

He smiled at her, kissed her forehead, then looked up at me. “We’ll finish this later.”

He led her away. I listened to their footsteps fade down the hall. The quiet that followed wasn’t peace it was a wound. I didn’t move for a long time. My hands were still trembling. When I finally looked down, the shirt hung limp in my grip, the red smear glinting faintly under the lamp. My vision blurred. I pressed my hand to my mouth, forcing the sob back before it could escape.

My body shook once, then again. No sound came out. I just stood there like that one hand over my lips, one clutching the proof of everything I’d tried not to see.

The water still dripped faintly from the bathroom tap. The bedspread was rumpled where he’d dropped his shirt. Everything smelled of him.

I couldn’t even cry out loud

But the anger sat in my throat like something alive, waiting. And I knew whatever this was, whatever I was still pretending to hold together it had just cracked beyond repair.