Second Choice: Wife by contract のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 11 - チャプター 20

I don’t reply to Celeste. Not that day. Not the next morning. I let the message sit there, unread, like a bruise I refuse to press. Woman to woman. The phrase keeps circling my head. It irritates me more than it should. Like we’re equals in something I never signed up for. Like she didn’t step back into my life through a door that wasn’t hers. Ethan notices before I say anything. He always does, with the small things. The way I’m quieter than usual. The way I fold laundry with too much care. The way I don’t mention the shop, even though it’s the one place I usually light up. “What’s wrong?” he asks one evening, casual, like he hasn’t already been bracing himself. I hesitate. Then I hand him my phone. He reads the message once. Then again. His jaw tightens. “She shouldn’t be contacting you,” he says. Something sharp and bitter rises in my chest. “But she is,” I reply. “And she keeps doing it because no one’s stopped her.” He looks at me then. Really looks. Like he understa

It happens on a Tuesday. Nothing dramatic about Tuesdays. No warnings. No thunder. Just a notification lighting up my screen while I’m icing éclairs in the shop, my apron dusted with powdered sugar, my hands finally steady again. Celeste Moreau followed you. Celeste Moreau sent you a message. I stare at it longer than I should. I already blocked her number. I was careful. Intentional. Proud of myself for it, even. Apparently, that only slowed her down. I don’t open the message right away. I finish piping the last swirl of cream. I wipe my hands. I smile at one of my staff when she asks if I’m okay. “Just tired,” I say again. It’s becoming my favorite lie. When I finally sit in the back and open the message, my chest tightens before my eyes even finish reading. “I don’t want problems with you. But you don’t own Ethan just because you married him.” There it is. The line. My first instinct is anger — hot, immediate, almost satisfying. My second is disbelief. My third is so

The shop smells like sugar and heat, cinnamon rolling over warm dough. I move slowly, deliberately, like rushing will shatter the fragile calm I’ve found. My hands are steady, my smile real—but inside, the ache I’ve been carrying all week hums, insistent. I finish frosting the last cupcake and place it in the display. My staff chatter around me, laughing, oblivious to the storm I’m holding behind my eyes. They dote on me in ways that are easy, safe. In their eyes, I’m enough. Not a contract. Not a shadow. Not a placeholder. Just me. I breathe. Really breathe. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I could exist outside Ethan, and that thought both terrifies and frees me. My phone buzzes. Soft. Deliberate. I don’t need to see the screen to know whose name will flash. Celeste. I stare at it. My thumb hovers. And then I do something I’ve been avoiding: I don’t touch it. I finish locking up the shop, tell my staff goodnight, and step into the quiet night, letting the streetlig

I wake up before my alarm and lie there anyway, staring at the ceiling like it might explain something if I give it enough time. My chest feels tight. Not panic. Just pressure. Like holding your breath too long without realizing you’re doing it. The guest room smells unfamiliar. Neutral. Like I haven’t lived here long enough to leave an imprint. That thought stings more than it should. I sit up slowly. My feet touch the floor. Cold. Real. Grounding. For a second, I consider crawling back into bed. Pretending today doesn’t exist. Then I remember his voice. Yes. I don’t cry. That surprises me. I thought that word would hollow me out. Instead, it settled somewhere deep and heavy, like a truth I’d already folded into myself without permission. In the kitchen, Ethan is already dressed. Coffee brewing. Newspaper open but unread. Domestic. Controlled. Almost gentle. “Morning,” he says. “Morning.” We don’t look at each other for a full five seconds. I count them. I don’t know why.

I start packing without calling it packing. That feels important. I don’t take suitcases. Just small things. A dress I like. My journal. The sweater that still smells like sugar and vanilla from the shop. Things that remind me I belong to myself. I move slowly. Carefully. Like if I rush, the truth will catch up to me and ask questions I’m not ready to answer. Ethan is on a call in his study. His voice is calm. Professional. Steady. He sounds like a man who knows exactly where he stands in the world. That makes something twist in me. I pause in the doorway and watch him for a second. The way he leans back in his chair. One hand rubbing his temple. The other gripping the phone. He looks tired. I wonder if I ever look tired to him. Or if I just look convenient. I close the door softly. In the bedroom, I find the watch I bought him last year. The one he wears when he wants to feel grounded. I turn it over in my hands. I loved you, I think. I still might. That’s th