Page 123 of The Hotel Room

He had handed it to her earlier that morning before he left for work, his expression somber but hopeful. “Take your time,” he’d said, his voice soft, almost reverent. “I just wanted you to have it.”

She swallowed hard and reached for the envelope, her fingers trembling slightly. Sliding her nail under the seal, she pulled out a folded sheet of thick stationery paper, the kind James always used for important things.

The first lines made her breath catch.

Kate,

There’s no way I can write this without starting with the words‘I’m sorry.’ I know you’ve heard them from me before, but I need you to know how deeply I mean them. I’m sorry for everything I’ve done to hurt you. I’m sorry for breaking your trust, for failing you as a husband, for making you question your worth. You didn’t deserve any of it, and it’s something I’ll regret for the rest of my life.

Her fingers tightened around the edges of the paper, her vision blurring slightly as she continued to read.

I’ve spent the last few months thinking about why I did what I did. At first, I wanted to blame everything and everyone else—my job, my insecurities, even Nick. But that wasn’t the truth. The truth is, I was scared. Scared of losing myself. Scared of being inadequate. And instead of facing those fears, I ran from them. I made selfish, stupid choices that cost me the most important thing in my life—you.

A lump formed in her throat as she scanned the next lines, her stomach twisting at the rawness of his words.

I know I’ve said this before, but I need you to hear it again. I love you, Kate. I’ve always loved you. From the moment I saw you at sixteen, standing in the hallway with that ridiculous backpack covered in pins, to the moment you walked down the aisle to me, glowing with life. You’ve always been my home. And I threw it away.

Her hands trembled as tears blurred her vision. She could feel the depth of his regret in every word, the self-loathing that had been seeping through his actions lately.

I’ve been working hard to understand myself better. Therapy has helped me realize that my actions weren’t justabout a single mistake. They were about years of failing to confront my own issues—my fear of not being enough, my fear of losing the life we’ve built. I know now that being your husband and the father of our children isn’t just part of who I am. It’s everything. It’s who I want to be.

Her breath hitched as she read the next part.

I don’t expect you to forgive me. I don’t deserve forgiveness. But I want you to know that I’m committed to doing better—for you, for our kids, for myself. If you decide you can’t take me back, I’ll understand. But whether we’re together or not, I will spend the rest of my life supporting you, protecting you, and honoring the love we built, even if it’s just from a distance.

Kate’s tears fell freely now, splashing onto the paper as she reached the final lines.

You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Kate. And I will never stop trying to make up for what I’ve done. I love you. I love you more than words can say, more than I’ve ever shown you, and more than I’ll ever deserve.

Always,

James

She set the letter down on the table, her chest heaving with uneven breaths. Her heart ached, but it wasn’t just pain—it was something else. Something sharper. It was hope.

Kate wiped her face with the sleeve of her sweater and sat there for a long time, staring at the letter.

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The brush slammed against the canvas, streaks of crimson and deep blue colliding in a chaotic mess. Kate’s hand trembled with the force of each stroke, the handle pressing hard into her palm. The studio was silent except for the sharp sound of bristles scraping against the canvas and her labored breaths.

The painting wasn’t a plan. It was an eruption. Anger. Fear. Love. They all tangled together in a blur of emotion she couldn’t unravel, spilling out in jagged lines and turbulent swirls.

The studio smelled faintly of fresh wood, paint, and a hint of earth from the garden outside. James had built this for her. She hadn’t asked him to, hadn’t even hinted that she wanted a space like this. And yet, he’d spent weeks hammering and sanding, insulating the walls to keep her warm, installing a massive window so she’d have the perfect light.

Why is he doing this?

She dipped the brush into a jar of black, slashing it across the canvas, her mind spiraling. He’d gone to therapy. He’d taken what was essentially a demotion at work so he wouldn’t have any more overnight business trips. He’d signed over the house—herhouse now—like it was nothing, all to makes sure she felt safe.

He’d done all of it without asking for anything in return. He hadn’t tried to manipulate her into making a decision about their marriage. He’d said he was letting her decide their future.

It should’ve made everything easier. But it didn’t.

Kate slammed the brush into the paint, twisting it hard against the palette before jabbing at the canvas. Her chest tightened as the memories came rushing back—the nightshe’d found him with that other woman, the humiliation, the heartbreak. She remembered standing frozen in the hotel bathroom, listening to them, unable to breathe, unable to move, while everything she’d trusted shattered around her.

Her grip tightened on the brush.

Am I weak for forgiving him?

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