BROKEN VOWS:- FALLING FOR MY MARRIAGE COUNSELOR

LILLIAN 

  He hasn't said a word since he sat down-Just passing out the kind of glance that said too much without making a sound.

   My hands rest on the white linen napkin, fingers twitching against the stem of my wine glass. Keeping a tight smile plastered on my face like I just won an Oscar award. Fake, but enough to convince everyone.

   Nothing about this table seems lovely or United.

   Especially not the man who just walked in and is now sitting across from me, eyes drifting from the glass wrapped around my fingers to my face. I want to try to ignore it. His gaze-but I can't. 

   He hasn't said a word, but I can feel his gaze burning harder and harder-steady and pressing. Like a burn on my skin, only I can feel. His fingers drum lightly against his wristwatch, calm as ever, leaving my father to do all the talking. 

   Joe leans in, his breath hot against my skin."You either eat or stop playing with your food?"

   I can't take it.

   I excused myself with a soft smile and a murmured lie about needing the bathroom. The napkin fell from my lap like a flag of surrender. 

   The hallway is cooler. Quiet. I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes, willing my heartbeat to slow down.

   Then I heard footsteps approaching, steady and deliberate. I don't open my eyes. "Sierra, not now. Please."

   "Still running, huh?"

   I freeze.

   It's not her voice. It's not my stepsister, though I half-expected her to follow me with another snide comment about attention seeking. 

   It's him.

   The first words he's spoken since stepping foot into this house. His voice is lower now, rougher-like whiskey soaked in regret. And when I turn, I wish I hadn't.

   He leaned against the opposite wall like he owns the air between us-tall and broad, his shirt sleeves pushed to his elbows, hands tucked to his pocket. His eyes drag over me like I'm something expensive but damaged. Like I'm something he wanted to throw but felt the need to keep.

   He pulled his hands out of his pockets, and I could see the bold and unfamiliar ink that runs along his forearm.

   "I almost didn't recognize you," he says. "But then I saw that mole on your collarbone..." 

   I swallowed hard. "I don't have time for this."

   "Sure you do," he replied smoothly. "You just want to run. Like always."

   I hissed under my breath and was about to push past him, but he stepped into my path, slow and in no rush to let me go. My breath catches. He's taller than I can remember. The soft edge of his boyhood is now gone, craved into something harder. His dark hair is styled into effortless perfection, like he's been preparing for this day.

   He tilts his head, eyes flicking down my body and back up-slow, deliberate. Then they meet mine, dark and unblinking. "You look good," he said, voice low, almost breathless. His pupils dilate. "Red makes your skin stand out." 

   I hate the way my chest tightened. He shouldn't still have this effect on me, not after all these years and everything that led us here. But my pulse doesn't listen.

   No one told me I looked good since I arrived here. Not even my husband. He was too busy staring at his phone while he dragged me around like a prop.

   But now... now my skin prickles. 

   I looked past him. "Move."

   "Not until you answer me."

   "There's nothing to answer."

   He laughs, bitter and low. "You left me without no solid explanation and got married to him a month later. You call that nothing?"

   My chest tightened as the memories of that night come crashing back. "It's been five years. I think you should move on."

   "I did, and you know it," he said. "I moved across oceans. Buried myself in work, and I had no interest in doing. Pretending you didn't rip a part of me when you went cold on me."

   My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. 

   He stepped closer, voice quieter. "You know... I spent a lot of time contemplating whether I should come back home. But then your father reached out to me. Inviting me to join his circus. Said it was urgent. And boom, here I am. Back home."

   Of course he did. My father only cared about business. But why work with this particular man when there are a lot of business moguls in the country? Why choose this particular man standing in front of me?

   "I don't owe you anything," I whispered, but I don't even believe it.

   He studies me. "You looked happy in the magazines and billboards I've come across. But right now, you look different."

   I glance down at the diamond ring on my left finger. It catches the light but feels like nothing. 

   He sees the flicker in my eyes, and his jaw tightened.

   "Do you love him?"

   I could feel the remaining warmth left in my body drain away. I don't answer. I can't. Because he's not genuinely asking if I love my husband-he's asking if I ever stopped loving him.

   Silence stretched between us, growing thicker than smoke.

   "Why?" He finally asks. "Why'd you leave? Why him?"

   "Maybe you can ask that question after you cut off whatever deal you have with my father, and leave," I say through clenched teeth, fighting the heat rising in my chest.

   He doesn't move. He just looks me dead in the eye, waiting for his questions to be answered.

   I shake my head. "You wouldn't understand."

   "Try me."

   I step back. "I'm not doing this. I made a choice. You have no right to question them."

   "No," he says, voice steel now. "You made a sacrifice. There's a difference."

   I blink, caught off guard. "What... what are you talking about?" 

   He leans in, and I could smell his cologne-musky and clean, the way he used to smell on winter nights after long drives. His voice is almost gentle when he speaks again.

   "I know you're not happy. I can see it in your eyes. You've got that look-that look that says your spark is beginning to fade away."

   I clenched my jaw, swallowing back the emotions threatening to break free.

   "I'm not here to ruin anything," he says. "But I deserve answers."

   My eyes sting. "Sometimes the truth hurts more than the lies."

   "I'm way past that. Hurt me," he says simply like a man who has gone through every dark shadow of life.

   I stay quiet, leaving every word he'd uttered sink in.

   He steps back with his eyes not leaving mine. "I'm done running, and I'm done hurting alone."

   The words land like a punch to my ribs. He sounds determined, and nothing I say would change his mind. And for a moment-I'm twenty again, standing under the rain, saying words I never believed I could say, walking away and breaking two hearts at once.

   But now his eyes are clear, focused and giving away nothing. His voice doesn't tremble as he speaks with finality.

   "I'm going to get my answers, one way or another."

   Then he steps past me, his shoulders brushing mine.

   And I'm left standing here, heart in my throat, wondering if, after all these years, I'm capable of surviving the truth I've buried.