The key turned in the lock with a soft click as Emily stepped back into her house. The familiar scent of fresh flowers and old carpet met her, as did the low creak of the hallway floorboards under her heels. She slipped them off without a sound, carrying them in one hand as she stepped quietly through the stillness of her home.   

It was just after 3:00 AM. The house was dark, save for the soft glow of the living room lamp left on—perhaps by accident or guilt.   

Mark wasn’t home yet.

She slowly breathed out, releasing the breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding since the taxi pulled away from The Grand. Her coat came off slowly, deliberately, and she draped it neatly over the back of the dining chair. Her movements were quiet and graceful. She moved through the space like someone who no longer quite belonged in it.

She paused by the mirror in the hallway. Her lipstick was long gone. Her hair was tousled, wild from fingers, passion, and hours lost in another man's arms. But her eyes—they were alive.

For the first time in a long time, Emily saw a woman staring back at her who wasn't tired, invisible, or pretending.

She looked radiant.

The front door opened softly behind her.

Mark.

She didn’t turn right away. She watched his reflection as he stepped into the house, his movements slower than usual. He was quiet, sober now, and more than that: small. There was an apology in his posture before he even said a word. 

“Emily,” he said gently. “You’re still up.” 

She turned to face him, calm. Composed. “I only just got in.” 

Mark blinked. “Just now?”  

She nodded, unbothered.  

“I thought—” he paused, rubbing the back of his neck. “I thought maybe you’d gone home early.”

“No,” she said. “I had a change of plans.”

He studied her face and wasn't sure what to say for the first time in a long while. The softness in her was still there, but something else had joined it. A quiet certainty. A strength he couldn’t quite name.

"You didn't answer my text or calls," he said meekly.

"You were drunk," she replied, "again."

“I know.” His voice dropped, guilty. “I know. I messed up. I made a scene. I embarrassed you.”

She didn’t respond right away.

Mark stepped closer. “Emily, I’m sorry. I really am. I didn’t mean to ruin your night. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know,” she said. “You never do. That’s always been the problem.”

The words hung in the air. Not cruel, but clear. The truth laid bare without venom.

Mark swallowed. “I—” He tried to say something else but couldn't quite find it. Instead, he looked her over as if searching for a familiar anchor. But what he saw unsettled him. She didn't look angry, heartbroken, or peaceful.

And that terrified him.

“Where were you?” he asked softly, not demanding, but already bracing for something he didn’t want to know.

Emily tilted her head slightly, then moved past him into the kitchen. She poured a glass of water from the tap, the silence stretching like a wire between them.

"I had dinner," she said after a beat. "Drinks and good conversation."

“With whom?”

She turned around, resting her hip against the worktop, cradling a glass.

“Someone who treated me like I mattered.”

Mark blinked. “Emily…”

She met his gaze, unwavering.

“I’m not going to lie to you,” she said quietly. “But I’m not going to give you details either.”

There it was. Not an accusation. Not a confession. Just the truth.

Mark’s shoulders slumped.

He ran a hand down his face and looked away. “Was it someone you knew?”

She didn’t answer.

He nodded slowly, then rubbed his eyes. “Did you—?”

She stepped forward, gently placing her hand on his arm. “Don’t ask a question you don’t want the answer to.”

His breath caught. His hands curled slightly at his sides. “I don’t know if I deserve to ask anything.”

“No,” she said softly. “But you will listen.”

He looked up, surprised at the firmness in her voice.

“I’ve spent years trying to help you feel stronger,” she continued. “Trying to be soft, forgiving. Hoping that one day you'd see me again, really see me—not just the woman who keeps the house clean and your image intact.”

“I do see you,” he said quickly.

“No,” she corrected. “You remember me. There’s a difference.”

The silence that followed was almost merciful. Mark dropped his gaze to the floor. He didn’t fight. He didn’t raise his voice. What was there to fight? A part of her had left with that kiss in Peter’s suite. The rest had followed in the early morning hours.

He looked up again. “Are you leaving me?”

Emily tilted her head, considering. “Not tonight.”

That answer was both mercy and warning.

Mark nodded slowly, absorbing it. His voice cracked slightly. “I missed you.”

She gave a soft, almost wistful smile. “You should’ve thought of that before you made me disappear.”

And with that, she brushed past him, stepping into the quiet hallway toward the bedroom.

Stopping briefly, she slightly looks over her shoulder. "You stink of alcohol and smoke," I don't want you in the bedroom.

"Where shall I go?" he replied, almost hoarsely, as she left him.

Mark stood alone in the kitchen, surrounded by the ghosts of every moment he had let her slip further away.

Upstairs, Emily undressed in the half-light, slipping beneath the sheets. The bed was cold, but she didn’t shiver.

She curled onto her side, eyes open, her fingers brushing where Peter had kissed her shoulder only hours ago. The scent of his cologne was faint on her skin, but the memory of his voice lingered louder: You have more power than you think.

And now, finally, she believed it. 

Now, Two weeks had passed, Two very long, quiet weeks.

The house had settled into a strained silence. Mark slept in the guest room now, though he still called it "crashing on the couch." He didn't ask questions anymore, and Emily didn't offer answers. They moved like strangers, sharing space, civil and careful, but with too many unsaid words hanging between them.

She didn’t tell him where she’d gone that night.

He didn’t ask.

But he hadn’t stopped wondering.

Emily, meanwhile, had changed in quiet, unmistakable ways. She no longer rushed through her morning routine and no longer filled the silence with small talk. She wore perfume again. And sometimes, she smiled at her phone in the kitchen when she thought no one was looking.

Mark noticed all of it. He just didn’t know what to do with any of it.

That morning, Emily rose early.

She had slept deeply, her body relaxed, her mind tingling from a message she'd read before bed. A simple line from Peter: “This weekend, same place. Just say the word.”

She texted back "word" and gave a little chuckle.

Saturday arrived quickly, and she had plans.

The coffee pot was already half-empty downstairs when Mark emerged from the guest room. His shirt was creased. His hair was a mess. He hovered in the doorway momentarily as if trying to decide which version of Emily he'd find today.

She was in the dining room, seated at the head of the table with the morning paper open, one leg crossed elegantly over the other. She was already dressed in a soft grey sweater and jeans that fit too perfectly for comfort. Her hair was pulled back with purpose.

Mark cleared his throat.

“No breakfast again?” he asked, half-joking.

Emily turned a page. “You know where the toaster is.”

He chuckled weakly. “It’s been a while since you made a full English.”

She looked up, her tone light but distant. “It’s been a while since you remembered what day it was.”

He flinched at that. “Fair.”

She folded the paper neatly and stood, stretching slightly. “I’m heading out this evening.”

Mark frowned. “Where to?”

Emily raised an eyebrow. “Do I need to explain myself now?”

“No,” he said quickly. “Just... curious.”

She walked past him toward the kitchen, placing her empty mug in the sink.

“I’ll be back late,” she said. “Don’t wait up.”

There was a pause.

“Emily,” he said, hesitating. “Is there something going on? With someone else?”

She turned to face him fully now. Not angry. Just... done pretending.

"Something is going on with me," she said. "And that's enough."

Mark swallowed hard, unsure what hurt more, her honesty or the fact that it no longer seemed to come with guilt.

He tried again. “You’ve been different. Since that night.”

She nodded slowly. “Yes. I have.”

“Did you... that night... did you stay with someone?”

Emily looked at him for a long moment, then offered a gentle, sad smile. “You already know the answer. You’ve known it since I walked through the door.”

His shoulders slumped. “Do you still want this marriage?”

“I want to want it,” she said quietly. “But I don’t know if that’s enough.”

The silence between them returned, but it was heavier now. Realer.

Mark looked down. “Are you seeing someone again?”

Emily didn’t move. “I said I’m going out. That’s all you need to know.”

She turned away and walked back upstairs, her bare feet soft against the wood.

That evening, he could smell her perfume before he saw her.

And then, there she was, slowly descending the stairs, one hand grazing the railing. She wore a navy dress cut just enough to whisper elegance but hug the curves she'd once kept hidden under layers of safe clothing. Her heels clicked softly on the last few steps.

Mark stopped in his tracks.

“You’re going out?” he asked, voice strained.

She reached for her coat. “Yes.”

“With..." He knew she would not tell him

She turned and gave him a once-over. "Do you want me to lie?"

He didn’t answer.

Her phone buzzed from her clutch. She didn’t check it, but she didn’t silence it either. She met his eyes squarely.

Mark stepped closer, searching her face. “And I’m not enough to bring that back?”

The front door creaked as she opened it. A car idled quietly outside, the same luxury black taxi that had waited for her two weeks ago.

Mark’s voice caught one more time. “Emily... when will you be home?”

She paused in the doorway. “When I’m ready.” Then she turned back briefly, her voice low and final. “And Mark… don’t try and sleep in the bed; I have bought new linen; I’ll need it all to stretch out when I get home.”   

That stopped him cold.

He swallowed hard. “And I’m what? Your husband. The man you vowed to—”

The clock struck 3 AM as Emily stepped back into the house, heels echoing the hallway with the calm confidence Mark hadn't heard in years.

She didn't close the door quietly, instead making a point of it closing to be heard.

Her coat hung open, revealing smooth bare legs and a navy silk dress that fell like liquid over her hips. But the silver, delicate, and deliberately worn anklet caught the low light as she moved toward the kitchen.

She didn’t speak. Just poured herself a glass of water, turned on a single light, and waited. Not for Mark. For the moment.

Right on cue, he appeared in the doorway with a creased shirt, loose tie, and an expression he was trying to temper into casual.

“You’re home late,” he said.

Emily didn’t look up. “Am I?”

Mark blinked. "I mean… yeah. It's after—"

She slightly turned her body toward him, one heel sliding free as her toes flexed against the tile. "Oh, I hadn't noticed. I lost track of time," she interrupted.

His eyes fell to her ankle, then hardened. "That's new?"

She tilted her head, letting the anklet catch the light. “This? Yes. It’s rather pretty, don’t you think?”

He stepped into the kitchen. “Who gave it to you?”

She sipped her water. “Would it matter?”

Mark’s jaw tightened. “You’re really doing this?”

“What exactly is 'this', Mark?” she said sweetly. “Having a social life? Wearing a little jewellery? Drinking water in my own kitchen?”

“You know what I mean.”

She set her glass down gently, leaning one hip on the worktop. "I'm sure you think you do," she said.

Mark exhaled hard, clearly trying to hold his composure. “I followed you tonight.”

Emily blinked once, then smiled. "I know; you were seen. It's adorable of you."

"I saw you near that hotel," he said. "Outside a... Club."

“Ah,” she said, dragging the sound out as she adjusted a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Yes. Very exclusive. Very private. Very… tasteful.”

He crossed his arms. “You were with him.”

She tilted her head, amused. “Were you close enough to see anyone?”

“I saw enough.”

“Then I suppose you know everything,” she said lightly, brushing past him to fetch her bag.

“Did you sleep with him?”

Emily turned slowly, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Do you want me to answer that?”

Mark hesitated.

"Because if you do," she continued, stepping toward him, "you'll have to live with it. Every image your mind fills in. Every sound it invents. Every position it imagines me in." She leaned enough for him to smell her heady, dark, masculine perfume.

“Or,” she whispered, “you can keep pretending I went out for a salad.”

Mark’s mouth opened, but no words came.

She stepped back, glancing down at her anklet again. “Peter said it looked better on me than he imagined.”

Mark stiffened. “So that’s his name now?”

“Oh, I’ve always known it,” she said, with a smile too soft to be innocent. “I just didn’t think you were ready to hear it.”

He paced away, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re humiliating me.”

“No,” she said, her tone cool. “You’re humiliating yourself. I told you I wouldn’t give you details, and here you are, digging for them. Is this what you want, Mark? A play-by-play of everything, I'm not telling you?"

He stopped, hands on his hips, glaring at the floor.

“I’m your husband,” he muttered.

“Legally,” she replied, eyes glinting. “Emotionally? Physically? I think we left those vows behind a long time ago.”

His voice dropped to a low rumble. “Are you trying to hurt me?”

She approached again, slower this time, until she was close enough for the tension to hum between them.

“No, Mark. Hurting you would mean I still cared enough to be angry. I’m just... showing you the mirror. You don’t like the reflection.”

His eyes searched her face, desperate now. “Why him?”

She smiled, and there was real warmth, just not for him.

"Because he listens. Because he sees me. Because I laugh when I'm with him. And because"—her voice lowered, velvety—" he doesn't apologise after making me feel good.”

Mark’s face twisted. “So this is it?”

“For tonight?” she said, slipping her heels off and padding barefoot toward the hallway. “Yes.”

“And tomorrow?” he called after her.

She paused at the bottom of the stairs and glanced back. Her voice came soft, mocking, laced with sweetness.

“Tomorrow, I might let him put it on me himself.”

Mark’s breath caught. His sweaty palms whitened as he heard her words.

"But don't worry," she winked, "it doesn't mean I'm not yours. Just... not in the ways you assumed."

She left him in the kitchen, swallowed by the scent of another man on her skin, the flash of silver at her ankle seared into his memory.

He stood in silence long after she was gone.

And though she never said it outright, Mark knew the real humiliation wasn't that she'd been touched by someone else.

It was that she’d come home glowing from it. And hadn't tried to hide a thing.   

Sunlight crept through the blinds, casting a soft, warm light across the wooden floor. Emily was already awake.

She stood at the mirror, naked, hair loose and brushed with purpose. The anklet still graced her ankle, subtle, glinting, quietly defiant. There was no urgency in her movements, no guilt, just the composed routine of a woman who'd reclaimed her mornings.

Downstairs, the silence was broken by the shuffle of Mark entering the kitchen. She heard the clatter of a mug and the hiss of the kettle. He hadn't spoken to her since the night before, not properly. When he'd seen her in that dress, his face had said enough.

Emily descended slowly, her heels clicking again just to remind him. She was dressed now: jeans, a fitted white top, and a blazer draped casually over her arm. She looked fresh, radiant, and poised.

Mark looked up from the worktop, eyes red from a restless night.

She didn’t greet him.

Instead, she moved to the hall closet, grabbed her tote, and adjusted her sunglasses atop her head.

“I’m going out,” she said. “I’ve got plans.”

Mark swallowed. “Where to?”

She turned back, one hand on the doorframe, her expression neutral. “You don’t need to know.”

He nodded stiffly. “Will you be back tonight?”

“Of course,” she said. “My bed’s here.”

A long pause hung between them.

Emily tilted her head slightly, smirking. “Speaking of beds… I need you to make mine.”

He blinked. “What?”

"I bought new Egyptian linen yesterday. I don't want it creased when I get home."

Mark stared at her.

She leaned in just slightly, her voice soft but loaded with suggestion. “And be careful pulling the sheets tight.”

He stood there for a long time, hand still on the worktop's edge. She hadn't yelled. She hadn't even raised her voice. But he felt like he'd been slapped.

He poured himself a second coffee but didn't drink it. The silence in the house gnawed at him, echoing with everything Emily didn't say. He'd spent the night turning it over in his head—every glance, every word, every flicker of that anklet under the kitchen light.

Peter. The name sat in his stomach like lead.

She had said it deliberately. Not shouted. Not confessed. She had gifted it to him.

And now he couldn’t stop hearing it.

By noon, he found himself pacing. He passed the stairs once, twice. Then he gave in.

He went up, and the bedroom door creaked open like something sacred had been disturbed.

He stepped inside.

Emily’s room, formerly their room, was immaculate. The bed was ruffled where Emily had gotten out, and the air was faintly scented with her perfume. But something else lingered, too—something faint, earthy, and deeply intimate.   

He stood up quickly, looking around the room like someone had walked behind him.

She hadn’t.

He moved to her dresser. Opened a drawer. Panties, neatly folded. Nothing obviously missing. No carelessly stashed lingerie or gifts. He opened her clutch from the night before. Lipstick. A receipt. A single earring. Nothing damning.

It was almost worse than if he had found something. 

She was too composed. Too precise. 

Too confident. 

He crossed to the window and pulled the curtains halfway. Then he turned to the bed.

She'd told him to do it, so he would do it. Grudgingly.

First, he pulled back the pillows, fluffed them, peeled back the duvet, and froze.

The sheets looked fresh.

There is a stain. It is not just a stain; a wet patch, a stained and torn black satin nighty, lies at the bottom of the bed.

His hand hovered above it like it might burn him.

He didn’t need to smell it. He already knew.

His knees almost buckled.

He sat on the edge of the bed, cold sweat blooming across his neck. For the first time, Mark started to cry.

That wasn't an accident. Emily hadn't been careless. She had left it for him.

A mark. A message. A trophy.  

When Emily returned hours later, fresh from a lunch and gallery stroll she didn’t bother explaining. Mark was sitting on the sofa. She walked past him without a word, paused, and then turned. “Did you make the bed?”

His voice was low. Hoarse. “Yes.”

“Good,” she said, brushing a hand through her hair. “Didn’t miss anything, did you?”

Mark’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you doing this?”

Emily stepped closer until they were nearly toe to toe. "Doing what?"

He gestured helplessly. “This. Playing with me. Making me question everything.”

“I’m not playing,” she said, calm and even. “You’re just waking up to a game you thought you’d already won.”

His eyes searched hers, still looking for the woman he remembered.

But she was gone.

And the one standing before him didn’t need to scream to break him.

“Was it him?” he asked. “Last night?”

She smiled.

“Mark,” she said softly, brushing a speck of lint from his shoulder, “the only thing worse than knowing… is not knowing.”

And with that, she turned and walked back into the kitchen.

Emily was quiet during dinner. She’d prepared a small salad for herself. Mark reheated a frozen meal and ate it at the far end of the table. They didn’t speak much. He kept looking at her ankle.

The anklet was still there.

She caught him looking.

“What?” she asked.

He shook his head. “It’s just... a lot.”

“Is it?” she asked, sipping her wine. “It’s just jewellery.”

“Not to me.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

Silence again.

Finally, he pushed his plate away. “Are you leaving me?”

Emily didn’t answer at first.

Then she stood and moved to the kitchen sink. Her voice came soft over her shoulder.

“No. I’m just not waiting to be noticed anymore.”

Mark looked down at his hands.

“You love him?”

She turned and leaned against the worktop.

“I love the way he makes me feel.”

“That’s not the same.”

“It’s more.”

Later, when Emily climbed into bed, she did so alone. She stretched out across the full width, letting the coolness of the sheets wrap around her. The anklet stayed on.

She ran a hand along the space beside her.

Not empty.

Free.

And downstairs, Mark stood at the kitchen sink, staring at his reflection in the window, wondering if he'd already lost her...

or if she had never truly belonged to him at all. 

End of part II