She drove past the familiar stretch of Charles Street, where cafes and boutiques sat with their warm lights glowing, windows filled with curated displays of linen dresses and artisan chocolate. A couple walked arm in arm past a florist, pausing to smell a wrapped bouquet. Natalie looked away, something in her chest squeezing tight.
Everywhere she turned, there were reminders of the life she’d once imagined, one filled with laughter and late-night dinners, shared mornings over coffee, hands brushing while reaching for the same mug on the shelf. But lately, it had become a life of passing notes, missed calls, and the quiet drone of loneliness that clung to her even in a crowd.
When she pulled up outside the brownstone she shared with Giles, the street was mostly empty. The building loomed in the soft evening light, its red-brick facade trimmed with white-painted molding, tall windows framed with wrought iron. There was a planter near the steps filled with tulips just beginning to bloom, placed there weeks ago by Natalie herself in a hopeful gesture that now felt foolish. She lingered in the driver’s seat, engine ticking as it cooled. The house looked the same as always, a three-story with a polished brass door knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. Her name was still on the mailbox. Her keys still fit the lock. But tonight, it felt foreign, like checking in to a hotel room that someone else had just vacated.
She climbed the stone steps slowly, her bag pulling at her down, shoulders hunched slightly against a force not entirely physical. Inside, the air smelled faintly of cologne and cooking. There was a jacket draped over the banister. Not Giles'. Unless it was new.
Natalie’s stomach fluttered. She toed off her shoes and crossed the foyer, the hardwood floors cool beneath her feet.The walls were painted a tasteful dove gray, with framed black-and-white photographs from their travels lining the hallway. Paris, Rome, Kyoto. A museum of memories, each one whispering a version of happiness she barely recognized anymore.
The house was dim, lit only by the under-cabinet lights in the kitchen and the glow from the living room television, which was paused on a black screen with the Netflix logo.
“Giles?”
No answer.
She moved toward the kitchen, half-expecting to see him sitting at the counter with a glass of wine in his hand. But the stool was empty. A half-finished glass sat on the marble island, deep red clinging to the crystal walls. The dishwasher did its thing in the corner.
A sound upstairs. A soft, hurried thump. Natalie stood very still.
Then, slowly, she walked toward the stairs. The air changed as she climbed. Warmer. The faint scent of perfume clung to the banister. Something floral. Not hers. At the top of the stairs, the bedroom door was ajar. She pushed it open. The bed was unmade, the sheets tangled and scrunched at the bottom of the mattress. The tell-tale signs of lovemaking and a rare occurrence. The window was cracked to let in the breeze, and a pair of champagne flutes sat on the nightstand beside an empty bottle of prosecco. And on the floor, just beside the foot of the bed, lay a pair of lacy black stockings.
Natalie stared at them. Her mind cataloged details with clinical detachment. Far too small. Style not hers, tacky. Her breath hitched. Her chest felt hollow, like all the air had been knocked out of her in a single silent blow. She had suspected it for some time, the late nights, the cryptic texts, the sudden interest in working out and buying expensive cologne. But a partof her, the part still hoping, had refused to believe it. She thought if she just stayed patient, held onto the fragments of what they were, things would get better.
She was wrong. Her hand reached for the bedpost to steady herself, the cool wood grounding her in the moment. Then came the rush, a wave of heat, disbelief, a noise in her ears like static.
“Giles!” she called, louder this time.
No answer.
Then the sound of the bathroom door opening. He appeared in the doorway a second later, shirtless, hair damp, towel slung around his waist.
He froze. “Natalie.”
She didn’t speak. Just stared at him, at the room, at the evidence so casually displayed.
He followed her gaze, and something flickered in his expression. Not guilt. Not panic. Irritation.
She finally spoke. "Who was she?"
"Nat, don’t."
"Don’t? Don’t what, Giles? Don’t ask why there’s a stranger’s underwear on our floor? Or why you’re standing there looking like you got caught rehearsing your lies in the mirror?"
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I was going to tell you."
“Really? Or did you just get caught out?"
He walked past her to grab the flutes, dumped them in the en-suite sink. "I suppose I did but it’s not all on me, Nat. You’re never here. You’re always working. Always exhausted. We haven’t connected in years."
Her voice dropped, trembling with restrained fury. "So that justifies cheating on me?"
"I’m not justifying anything," he snapped, turning back to her. "I’m explaining. There’s a difference."
She laughed, sharp and humorless. "No, Giles. There isn’t."
The silence between them stretched long in the space of all the unspoken things they’d avoided for too long.
She finally said, quieter now, "How long has this been going on? Is it serious or is it a fling?"
