Raf
It had been the week from hell. Because never in her life had Raf been in any kind of physical altercation. And never in her life—despite all the poor choices she’d made, the selfish men she’d chosen—had she had an affair. But now? Against her will, she’d become the other woman.
Evie and Luca were traumatized after that scene at the beach house. She could still hear Evie’s sobs after Casey left, as she held her daughter tight, trying to calm her, while Luca stood nearby, watching in wary silence. Each passing day, his eyes seemed to say the same thing, like he didn’t recognize her, like he was thinking: Who are you and what have you done with my mom?
When he began sweeping up the debris—the shards of the Murano bowl she’d smashed in a blind rage—she panicked. No, it’s not his responsibility. She set Evie down, gathered the glass herself, and tried to restore the room to something that didn’t resemble a crime scene.
Then she leveled with her son. A man had entered her life, she explained. He wasn’t who he said he was. And when grown-ups lie, it’s called deception, she stated calmly, sometimes it makes other grown-ups angry. But the damage was done. Luca just nodded, eyes wide and knowing in a way that broke her heart.
And still, she didn’t understand. Something about the way Casey had just appeared in her life, out of the blue, the way he’d looked at her, the ease with which he approached, felt… off. Had he seen her in the tabloids? Was he a deranged fan? Or worse… a plant from Ethan’s camp? The thought was so absurd, she couldn’t take it seriously.
Ockham’s razor, she tells herself. The simplest answer had to be the right one. Casey, in the end, was just another cheater. She was just another vulnerable woman, and for whatever reason—fate, she rationalized—their lives had collided.
The buzz of her phone nearly makes her jump. Raf sets down her wine glass and looks at the screen.
Alexander. Why the fuck is he calling me?
She knows better, but she also hates not knowing. Not knowing what he wants. So, she answers anyway.
The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
“Hello?”
“Raf. I wasn’t sure you’d pick up.”
She sinks back into the couch, curling her legs tighter beneath the knit throw. “I wasn’t either,” she says tentatively. “Is there something I can help you with?”
Outside, the ocean churns, wind pressing against the glass. Don’t fall for it. He’s trying to get back in, she warns herself.
“I’ve been thinking about you. Wondering how you’re getting by. How are the kids? The divorce?”
“They’re fine. It’s pending. Is that really why you called?”
“You never replied to my message. My offer to help.”
She remembers the email. She hadn’t even finished reading it. She just hit delete and went on with her day.
“I don’t want to do this, Alexander. The last time I saw you, you—”
“Scared you. I know. I’ve gone over that day a thousand times. And I hate that I made you feel unsafe.”
Is he apologizing? Is that what this is?
“You were in a fragile place. And I should’ve recognized that. I let my own… investment in your healing compromise the space. That’s on me.”
Don’t fall for it. He’s just telling you what he thinks you want to hear.
“I broke trust, Raf. And I regret that. But I also know what we built. You were making real progress. And now…” He hesitates, and when he speaks again, it’s gentler, like he’s not sure he still has the right. “Now I hear something in you. In your voice. You don’t sound okay.”
She hates that he’s right. She hates that he knows he’s right.
“I’m coping,” she says, not entirely sure she believes it.
“Are you? Because it sounds like you’re in a storm. One you didn’t start. One you never saw coming.”
Is it really that obvious?
“I’m not asking for forgiveness,” he goes on. “Or to pretend it didn’t get… complicated. But deep down, you know you’ve never been more grounded than you were in our work. You were strong. Clear. And lately… I just worry.”
“You worry?”
“I’ve seen people come undone.”
Raf closes her eyes, fingers tightening on the blanket. She wants to believe him. Wants to believe someone truly sees her. Hears her. Understands her.
“You don’t have to come back,” Alexander continues, his voice tilting just slightly toward hope. “But if you do… I’ll keep the space clear. No agenda. Just somewhere to sort through the noise. That’s all.”
No. There’s nothing to think about. He’s just trying to manipulate me, to pull me back in. Damn him.
“I’ll think about it,” she says, surprising herself.
“Good. Because you have nothing to prove. There’s no shame in asking for help if you’re falling, Raf.”
“You think I’m falling?” she asks, but the line is already dead.
“Hello? Alexander?”
She lowers the phone, staring at the blank screen like it might still answer her. Because now she’s not sure—was she proving her strength, or just afraid to ask for help?
No. I’m surviving. That’s all I can do.
And yet, against her better judgment, the question surfaces anyway: What if that’s not enough?