I haven’t answered a single message or email since this morning when Page Six came out with an article about our separation. It’s funny how I only uttered the words two nights ago, yet it was already circulating gossip columns before the weekend hit, blasted all over social media. I wonder if he wanted this. If that was Evan’s way of finally pushing his workaholic wife to the brink of divorce.

My gaze morphs into a glare as he comes into view, but it doesn’t stay long. My skin is suddenly feeling hotter, but in a way that’s joined with desire. I can’t help but to imagine how his rough stubble would feel against my palm as I caressed his cheek, how his lips would taste as he leaned down to kiss me. A very large part of me wants to savor it. Our last goodbye kiss. It’s funny how the goodbye kisses are the ones I value most, but I won’t let him kiss me before he leaves this time. Not when the last things that came from his lips were lies.

My deep inhales are silent, although the heavy rise and fall of my chest betrays me. If he notices, he doesn’t let on as he places his luggage by the front door. My own hands turn numb watching his.

Even if he is only wearing a pair of faded jeans and a plain white T-shirt, he’s still devilishly handsome. It’s his muscular physique and tanned, tattooed skin that let you know he’s a classic bad boy regardless of what he’s wearing. My heart beats slower as the seconds pass between us; it’s calming just to look at him. That’s how he got me in the beginning. The desire and attraction are undeniable despite what he’s done.

He’s the first to break our gaze as he runs his fingers through his dark brown hair and lets out an uneasy sigh. In response my lips curl into a sarcastic smile, mocking both me and my thoughts. I’m not the only one to fall for his charm and allure, but I should have learned my lesson by now. My fingers slip down the thin stem of the wineglass as I smile weakly and force back the sting in my eyes, pretending I’m not going to cry, pretending that I’ve made my decision final. Like I don’t already regret it.

“I have to go,” Evan states after a moment of uncomfortable silence, apart from the constant background hum of traffic.

My blood rushes and I try to swallow the lump in my throat. I focus on the wine, the dark red liquid pooling in the base of the glass. I try to swirl it, but it doesn’t move; there’s so little left.