Asher's POV
Something is wrong with Blaze.
Ever since the night we rescued Sophie from her attackers, he's been different—distant in a way that makes my chest tighten with unease every time I notice it. He's polite but detached, present but not really there.
When I reach for him in bed, he doesn't pull away, but he doesn't lean in either. When I ask about his day, he answers in monosyllables that reveal nothing.
It's like living with a ghost wearing my husband's face.
I thought our passionate reconciliation after the Kieran incident had finally resolved the conflicts between us.
That night, when I came home early and kissed him like my life depended on it, when we made love with the desperate intensity of two people rediscovering each other—I thought we'd turned a corner. I thought the worst was behind us.
But something has shifted, and I can't figure out what.
Today, I decided to take action.
I left practice early despite Coach's protests about the upcoming crucial game, his face reddening with frustration as I gathered my things. "Carpenter, we need you on the ice. This game could determine our playoff positioning."
"I'm already one of the best players on this team and outside," I told him, shouldering my bag. "I can afford to prioritize my personal life occasionally. The team will survive one shortened practice."
It felt good to say it, to mean it, to finally choose Blaze over hockey without hesitation or guilt.
I'd also quietly arranged for Kieran to be replaced, meeting with team management earlier this week to request a new social media manager.
When they asked why, I kept it vague—"We don't get along professionally. It's affecting my focus." They didn't push for details, and I didn't offer them. Some things are better left unexplained.
On my way home, I stop at Blaze's favorite deli—the one with the artisanal cheeses he loves and the imported wine he only lets himself drink on special occasions.
I gather an assortment of his favorite things: aged gouda, truffle honey, the specific brand of dark chocolate that always makes him smile.
I plan a romantic evening designed to reconnect us, to recapture the intimacy that seems to be slipping through my fingers no matter how hard I try to hold on.
The apartment is quiet when I arrive, arms laden with peace offerings.
"Blaze?" I call out, kicking the door closed behind me. "I came home early. Thought we could have a nice dinner, just the two of us. I got that cheese you like from the place near…"
Silence answers me.
The living room is empty. The bedroom, when I check, shows no signs of recent occupation. His jacket is gone from the hook by the door. His phone charger has been unplugged from the nightstand.
He's not here.
The silence feels ominous now, heavy with implications I don't want to acknowledge. I set the bags of food on the kitchen counter, trying to calm the anxiety building in my chest.
Maybe he went for a walk. Maybe he's at the gym. Maybe there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for why my husband isn't home in the middle of the afternoon.
That's when I see it. A single piece of paper sits on the kitchen island like an accusation.
My stomach plummets before I even pick it up, some instinct warning me that whatever this is, it's going to destroy me. My hands tremble as I reach for the paper, turning it over to reveal a printed photograph.
Me and Kieran. At that after-party. His lips pressed against mine in what looks like a passionate kiss.
The world tilts beneath my feet.
What the photograph doesn't show, what the unknown photographer couldn't have captured, is the split second afterward.
The way I shoved Kieran away in shock and anger. The way I told him never to touch me again. The way I fled the party and came straight home to my husband, desperate to remember what really mattered.
To anyone viewing this frozen moment, it looks like willing participation in infidelity. It looks like I wanted this. Like I was cheating on my husband at some party while he waited at home, trusting me.
Blaze has seen this. Blaze thinks I betrayed him.
Panic floods my system, cold and electric. I fumble for my phone, nearly dropping it twice before I manage to pull up his contact. The call goes straight to voicemail.
"Blaze, please." My voice cracks on his name. "Please call me back. It's not what it looks like. I can explain everything, just… Please."
I hang up and call again. Voicemail. Again—voicemail. All subsequent attempts end the same way.
Each unanswered ring feels like another nail in the coffin of our relationship. I pace frantically through the apartment, phone clutched in my white-knuckled grip, leaving message after message that grow increasingly desperate.
"I know how that photo looks, but I swear to you, I didn't kiss him. He kissed me, and I pushed him away immediately. That's why I came home that night, why I was so desperate to be with you—because I realized how close I came to losing everything that matters."
"Blaze, please. I should have told you what happened. I was trying to protect you, protect us, and I made the wrong call. But I have never, ever been unfaithful to you. Not in my heart, not in my actions, not for a single second."
"I love you. God, I love you so much. Please just let me explain. Please don't give up on us because of one photograph that doesn't tell the whole story."
The voicemail box is full now. He's not going to answer.
In my agitated pacing, my elbow catches something on Blaze's side of the dresser—a small package I hadn't noticed before, carefully hidden behind a stack of books. It tumbles to the floor, the elegant wrapping paper tearing slightly on impact.
I freeze, staring at it.
The wrapping is from a jewelry store near our old cottage—the place where we first admitted our feelings, where everything between us truly began. Whatever this is, Blaze has been saving it, waiting for the right moment.
My hands tremble as I pick up the damaged package, feeling the weight of a small box beneath the torn paper. A gift he was planning to give me, probably during some romantic gesture I'll never get to experience now.
The realization hits me like a physical blow.
While I was dealing with Kieran's unwanted advances and trying to protect our marriage through secrecy, Blaze was planning this. Holding onto this token of love while fighting his own insecurities alone.
Probably struggling with doubts and fears I never noticed because I was too focused on my own guilt to see his pain.
And now everything is ruined. Destroyed by a photograph that captures a moment of betrayal that never actually happened—a moment I chose to hide instead of confess, thinking silence would protect us better than truth.
I was so wrong, about everything.
I clutch the damaged package to my chest and sink to the floor, my back against our bedroom wall, feeling like the worst person alive.
Somewhere in this city, my husband is hurting. Believing I betrayed him, believing our entire reconciliation was built on lies.
And I have no idea how to find him. No idea how to fix something this broken.