He hadn’t expected to find her journal on the top shelf of the bedroom closet, tucked behind a stack of blankets. The brown leather cover was soft, worn down, clearly touched everyday. He hesitated before opening it, but curiosity overpowered guilt, something he rarely felt anyway. The handwriting on the first page hit him like a punch.
I don’t recognize my husband anymore. He flipped to another entry. He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t look at me. I’m terrified to bring this child into a life where I feel invisible. The air went thin again, like someone had pressed a fist against his chest. He turned more pages, each one sharper than the last. I think he’s lying. I think he’s seeing someone.
I smelled perfume on him tonight. It wasn’t mine. I cried in the shower so he wouldn’t hear. Entry after entry, months of quiet suffering, laid bare what he had refused to see. But one message stood out, circled three times. Why is Sabrina calling him this late? The date was from two months ago. His stomach churned.
she had known, or at least suspected, long before the night she left, and she wrote something even moredamning a few pages later. I tried calling Ethan for advice. He didn’t pick up, but his assistant said he’d return my message. Logan froze. Ethan again. The thought of Madison reaching out to another man, even out of despair, sent a hot, acidic jealousy coursing through him.
He slammed the journal shut, pacing like a cornered animal. Ethan Marshall was wealthy, respected, and every inch the man Logan wished he could be. If Ethan wanted to turn Madison against him, it would be effortless, and Madison was vulnerable enough for someone like Ethan to swoop in, comfort her, protect her, maybe even love her. The idea twisted Logan’s insides.
