My phone pings just as I open the door to get out and drag my sorry ass up to tell her everything. To lay it all out there, beg for her forgiveness, her understanding. But most importantly for her to stay with me. I’ll give her space and time. I’ll give her everything she asks. All I need is a deadline or something to work toward. I need her.

If she can still love me, after all I put her through and everything ahead of us, then we can get through anything.

I expect it to be Kat who messaged, but it’s not her that texted me. It’s Samantha.

I heard you quit.

News travels fast, I respond quickly and then debate on how to tell her I won’t be responding anymore to her. It’s not fair to my wife and now that I’ve left the company, there’s no reason to have any type of relationship with her.

What about what happened?

I stare at the text on my phone as the lights in my car dim, signaling me to leave. She follows up the question with another that makes my stomach churn. He knows about what happened and you know he won’t let it go. He’ll hang this over your head until he gets what he wants.

My brow knits as I read the message. I don’t give a shit what he knows or what he wants. For a moment, I think maybe she’s messaging the wrong person. I settle on my response.

I have nothing to give him.

He knows about us, Evan.

I stare at the text message, letting it sink in.

You told him? I ask her, my gaze shifting from the phone to the lit townhouse building off the busy city street. The lights are on in her office and the living room. So close. She’s so close.

My phone vibrates in my hand and I look back down to see her response. He’s known for years.

My hand clenches tight as I realize he’s been playing me. He’s never let on that he knew I fucked his wife.

My first instinct is to blame Sam. You didn’t tell me you told him, I text and then hate myself for it. I didn’t know she was married; we were both high and I wanted any excuse to end things with Kat.

I didn’t think he cared.

It was years ago. So now what? I swallow the ball of heat rising in my throat. It doesn’t change anything. If he wants to be pissed, he can be pissed.

I don’t see him letting this go. Not when he can get back at you. You need to be careful.

A frustrated groan travels up my throat.

Fuck him. He can do what he wants, but I’m not his bitch.