Blaze’s POV
The terrace of my parents' house feels like the only safe haven left in my world.
I sit in the familiar wicker chair where I used to read as a teenager, staring at the garden my mother has tended for decades without really seeing the carefully maintained flowers and hedges.
The roses are in bloom, she always had a gift for coaxing beauty from stubborn soil, but their colors blur into meaningless shapes through my unfocused gaze.
My phone buzzes again. Asher's name flashes across the screen for what must be the twentieth time today. I let it go to voicemail, just like all the others. I can't hear his voice right now. Can't listen to whatever excuses or explanations he's prepared.
The photograph burned into my memory speaks louder than any words he could offer.
My mother appears through the French doors, carrying two glasses of wine with the quiet grace of someone who knows when her child is hurting.
She doesn't ask questions immediately—just settles into the chair beside me and offers a glass, her presence a comfort I didn't realize I needed until she was here.
We sit in silence for a long moment, the late afternoon sun warming our faces while birds chatter in the hedges. She's always known when to push and when to simply be present. It's a skill I never fully appreciated until now.
"I didn't know where else to go."
I admit finally, my voice rough from hours of suppressed tears.
"Sophie's dealing with her own crisis—she doesn't need my problems on top of everything else. And I couldn't exactly show up at a friend's place to complain about my marriage falling apart."
"You can stay here as long as you need," my mother says simply. "Your father's at a conference until Thursday, so it's just us. But sweetheart..."
She pauses, choosing her words carefully. "Maybe you shouldn't jump to conclusions, even when things seem obvious."
I pull out my phone, navigating to the photograph that's been haunting me since I discovered it on my social media feed. My hands are steadier than I expected as I turn the screen toward her.
"Look at this and tell me I'm jumping to conclusions, Mom. Tell me there's another explanation for my husband kissing another man at a party he never mentioned attending."
She studies the image carefully, her expression thoughtful rather than shocked. I watch her take in the details—Asher's familiar profile, Kieran's unmistakable features, their lips pressed together in what looks like willing intimacy.
"It's certainly... damning," she acknowledges slowly. "But Blaze, I've seen you and Asher together. I've watched how he looks at you, how his whole face changes when you walk into a room. It's hard for me to believe he would do something like this."
"And yet he did."
My voice comes out hollow, exhausted from the effort of holding myself together.
"The evidence is right there in front of you. He went to that party, he sat on that couch with Kieran, and he kissed him. Or let himself be kissed. Does the distinction even matter?"
My mother purses her lips, reaching over to cover my hand with hers. The gesture reminds me of childhood scraped knees and broken friendships, of all the times she sat with me through pain I thought would never end.
"All I want is for you to be happy, sweetheart. Whatever that looks like. If leaving Asher is what you need, I'll support you completely. But if there's even a chance this isn't what it appears to be..."
She squeezes my fingers gently. "Just promise me you'll listen before you decide. Really listen."
Before I can respond, the sound of a car in the driveway cuts through the quiet afternoon.
Through the front windows, we watch Asher's familiar vehicle screech to a halt at an angle that suggests he barely remembered to put it in park. He leaps out before the engine has fully stopped, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste.
Even from this distance, I can see the desperation radiating from every line of his body. His hair is disheveled, his clothes wrinkled like he's been running his hands through them for hours.
His face is etched with panic and something that looks dangerously like hope.
"I think I'll go inside," my mother says tactfully, squeezing my shoulder once before rising from her chair. "If you need me, just call."
She disappears through the French doors just as Asher rounds the corner of the house, having apparently sprinted from the driveway rather than walking like a normal person. He stops at the edge of the terrace, chest heaving, eyes wild as they find mine.
"Blaze—"
"Don't." I hold up a hand, stopping him before he can come closer. "I don't want to hear it."
"Please, just let me explain." He takes a step forward despite my warning, his voice cracking with emotion. "It's not what it looks like. I know how that photo appears, but you have to let me tell you what actually happened."
"It's exactly what it looks like."
The words come out sharper than I intended, edged with all the hurt I've been suppressing.
"You were kissing him, Asher. In public, where anyone could see. Where someone did see and capture it for the whole world to witness."
"I wasn't kissing him!"
Asher's frustration breaks through, his hands raking through his already chaotic curls.
"He kissed me, and I pushed him away immediately. The photo doesn't show what happened next—it doesn't show me shoving him off and telling him never to touch me again. It doesn't show me leaving that party and coming straight home to you."
For the next twenty minutes, Asher pleads his case with desperate intensity. He explains about Kieran's calculated approach—the sympathetic listening, the careful manipulation, the gradual erosion of boundaries that culminated in that unwanted kiss.
He describes his immediate rejection, his horror at what had happened, his decision to have Kieran removed from the team entirely.
"I've already arranged for a new social media manager," he says, his voice hoarse from talking. "Kieran's gone. I made sure of it this week, before any of this came out. You can verify it with the team if you don't believe me."
He steps closer, and this time I don't stop him. His ice-blue eyes are glistening with unshed tears, his expression stripped of every defense.
"I'll spend more time at home. I'll listen better. I'll do whatever it takes to prove I'm telling the truth."
His voice drops to barely above a whisper.
"Will you really not believe me, Blaze? Do you really think I'm the kind of person who would cheat on you? After everything we've been through to be together?"
The question hits me like a physical blow.
Because I know the answer. I can call Asher many things—stubborn, obsessed with his career, sometimes thoughtless about priorities.
But a cheater? Someone who would deliberately betray our marriage vows, who would throw away everything we've built for a moment of pleasure with someone else?
That's not who Asher is. Deep down, beneath all my hurt and fear and wounded pride, I know it.
"I'll come home with you,"
I say quietly, watching relief flood his features like sunrise breaking over water.
"But that doesn't mean everything is okay between us. You want to prove this was all a misunderstanding? Then show me with actions, not just words. Show me that our marriage actually matters as much as you claim it does."
Asher nods eagerly, gratitude and determination warring in his expression. "I will. I promise, Blaze. I'll prove it every single day."
As we walk toward his car together, his hand hovering near mine but not quite touching, I feel the first fragile stirring of hope.
Maybe, just maybe, we can find our way back to each other.