Page 52 of The Hotel Room

This moment—this quiet connection, his presence, his gentleness—made her realize how much shehadmissed him. The version of him who had been present. Caring. Loving.

Not the version who broke her heart.

She opened her eyes, turning to glance at him, and for a heartbeat, they justlookedat each other.

And she saw it—the emotion behind his eyes. The regret.

But he didn’t say anything.

He just stayed, present, his hand still steady on her back, his thumb brushing lightly along the curve of her spine.

And for now, that was enough.

Because for once, she didn’t feel like she was carrying it all alone.

------------------

The kids were asleep. James had taken Lily to bed earlier, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead while Noah lingered in his room, headphones on, locked in his own teenage world.

And now, it was just Kate—alone in the dim light of the spare room that had become hers since everything fell apart.

The walls were still bare, boxes stacked haphazardly in the corners. She hadn’t really unpacked. Not fully. The guest bed was too small, the air felt stale, and the whole space felt temporary, as if admitting shelivedhere would make it permanent.

Another canvas sat in front of her. Half-finished.

A mess.

At first, she’d thought the act of painting would feel likerelease. A way to channel everything she couldn’t say, the knot of grief and anger and guilt and confusion twisting so tightly inside her it made her stomach ache.

But the longer she worked, the messier it became.

She’d started with sweeping strokes, a storm of blues and grays and deep violet bleeding together. But it wasn’t...anything. Shapes blurred. Lines blurred. Colors tangled.

It was chaos.

Her hand trembled slightly as she added another brushstroke, dragging a streak of crimson across the blue. It didn’t blend well. The paint was too thick, too uneven.

Too raw.

She stared at it, heart pounding in a rhythm she couldn’t quite control.

What am I even trying to say?

The brush hovered above the canvas, suspended as her mind spiraled.

Was she angry? Was she hurt?

Was she mourning the marriage she thought she had? Or clinging too hard to the one she wished could be saved?

Everything felt tangled, like the lines of her life were smearing together—blurred between the James she’d loved and the James who had betrayed her. Between the baby growing inside her and the ache of knowing her heart still felt cracked wide open.

Her grip tightened on the brush.

The truth was—she didn’tknowhow she felt.

She thought back to James, sitting so patiently with her earlier, his hands gentle on her back. The man who had held her hair when she was sick, brought her tea, stayed when he didn’t have to.

But that same man had been with another woman.

---