The morning after Kris’s departure felt heavier than the air in our bedroom. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the guilt gnawing at me like a persistent ache. Mark was already up, moving quietly around the house, his footsteps soft and deliberate, as if he were trying not to disturb the fragile peace between us. I knew I had to face him, to say something, anything, to ease the tension that had settled over us like a fog. But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, I reached for my phone, scrolling through messages from Kris, his confident words and playful emojis a stark contrast to the silence in my own home.

By midday, I couldn’t avoid it any longer. Mark was in the kitchen, making coffee, his back to me as I entered. The maid’s uniform he’d worn the night before was nowhere in sight, replaced by a simple t-shirt and jeans. He looked… ordinary. And that hurt more than I cared to admit.

“Hey,” I said, my voice softer than I intended.

He turned, his expression neutral, but his eyes gave him away. They were tired, resigned, as if he’d already accepted something I hadn’t even voiced yet. “Hey,” he replied, handing me a cup of coffee.

We sat at the kitchen table, the silence stretching between us. I wanted to apologize, to explain, but the words caught in my throat. Instead, I blurted out, “I’m sorry.”

Mark looked up, his brow furrowed. “For what?”

“For… everything. Last night. Kris. This.” I gestured vaguely between us, the mess of our relationship laid bare.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not your fault, Kate. I’m the one who can’t…” He trailed off, his gaze dropping to his coffee cup.

“Mark,” I said, reaching across the table to take his hand. “You’re not a failure. You’re not.”

He pulled his hand away, not harshly, but with a finality that stung. “Maybe I am. Maybe I’m just not enough for you.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and undeniable. I wanted to deny them, to reassure him, but could I? Kris’s presence had exposed the cracks in our marriage, and I wasn’t sure how to fix them. Or if I even wanted to.

Later that afternoon, we found ourselves in the living room, the tension still palpable. Mark was sitting on the couch, flipping through a magazine, though I doubted he was reading. I sat beside him, my thigh brushing against his, and for a moment, it felt like old times. But then I remembered Kris, his hands on me, his mouth whispering filthy promises in my ear, and the moment shattered.

“Mark,” I began, my voice trembling. “I… I want to try. To make this work.”

He looked at me, his expression skeptical. “Do you? Or do you just want to feel better about yourself?”

The question hit me like a punch to the gut. Was that all this was? A way to ease my guilt? I wanted to say no, but the truth was murkier than that.

Before I could respond, he leaned in, his lips brushing mine. It was a soft kiss, tentative, as if he was testing the waters. I kissed him back, my hands moving to his shoulders, trying to feel the connection we once had. But it wasn’t there. Not like before.

His hands moved down my body, his touch gentle, almost reverent. I felt a flicker of desire, but it was faint, overshadowed by the memory of Kris’s rough hands, his commanding presence. Mark’s fingers traced the hem of my dress, pulling it up slowly, his lips moving to my neck, his breath warm against my skin.

I moaned softly, closing my eyes, trying to lose myself in the moment. But then his hand moved lower, his fingers brushing against my thigh, and I felt it—the hesitation. His touch faltered, and I opened my eyes to see him staring at me, his expression pained.

“I can’t,” he whispered, pulling away.

“Mark, it’s okay,” I said, reaching for him, but he stood, backing away.

“No, it’s not okay. I can’t even… I can’t do this.” His voice broke, and he turned, walking toward the bedroom, leaving me alone on the couch.

I sat there, my dress half-pulled up, my body flushed with a mix of frustration and embarrassment. I wanted to chase after him, to comfort him, but what was the point? He was right. He couldn’t do this. And maybe, deep down, neither could I.

Hours later, after the sun had set and the house had grown dark, I found myself in the bedroom. Mark was lying on the bed, his back to me, his body rigid. I slipped under the covers beside him, my hand reaching out to touch his shoulder.

“Mark,” I whispered.

He didn’t respond, didn’t even move. I rolled toward him, my body pressing against his, my lips finding his ear. “Let me help you,” I murmured, my hand moving down his chest, my fingers brushing against the waistband of his jeans.

He turned then, his eyes meeting mine, filled with a mix of desperation and resignation. “I don’t want to fail you again,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You won’t,” I promised, though I wasn’t sure if I believed it.

His hands moved to my dress, pulling it off slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. I was naked now, my body exposed, and I felt vulnerable in a way I hadn’t in years. He kissed me, his lips hungry, his hands moving over my skin, but there was a frantic edge to his touch, as if he was trying to prove something.

His fingers moved between my legs, his touch clumsy, desperate. I moaned, trying to guide him, but it was no use. He pulled away, his breath coming in short gasps, his face flushed with shame.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”

I reached for him, pulling him close, my lips pressing against his. “It’s okay,” I whispered, though it wasn’t. “We’ll figure this out.”

But as I held him, my mind wandered to Kris, to the way he’d taken control, his body hard and unrelenting. I felt a pang of guilt, but it was quickly replaced by something else—a flicker of desire, a longing for what Mark couldn’t give me.

Mark’s hands moved to my breasts, his touch gentle, almost reverent, but his cock remained soft against my thigh. I closed my eyes, trying to ignore the disappointment, trying to focus on the intimacy of the moment. But it was there, a silent reminder of what we’d lost.

“Kate,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I don’t want to lose you.”

I kissed him, my lips pressing against his, my hands moving to his face. “You won’t,” I promised, though the words felt hollow.

As we lay there, entangled in each other’s arms, the silence between us spoke volumes. I felt sad, yes, but there was something else too—a strange sense of relief. Kris’s presence had exposed the truth, and now I had to decide what to do with it.

The chapter ended with us lying in bed, the future uncertain, the air thick with unspoken words and unresolved desires. I closed my eyes, my hand resting on Mark’s chest, feeling his heartbeat steady and slow. But my mind was elsewhere, wandering to Kris, to the possibilities that lay beyond our bedroom walls.

Was I really sad? Or was this what I’d wanted all along? The question lingered, unanswered, as the night deepened around us.