Page 22 of Second Sin

Not when she kissed me outside that bar. Not when she took me back to her hotel room.

And by the time I found out?

I was already too deep to care.

Didn’t stop.

Didn’t even slow down.

Told myself it was complicated. That her marriage was already broken. That I was the exception, not the problem. But the truth? I liked how it felt. Being the secret. Being wanted. I didn’t care who it cost.

I run faster, my feet hitting the pavement hard, like I can outrun my demons.

This morning they scream louder than they ever have.

Shame.

Regret.

Guilt.

So much fucking guilt.

He said if I walked away, she might still go back to who she was before. That I was the detour. The mistake. The thing pulling her off course.

He looked like a man holding his whole world together with shaking hands.

And I still didn’t end it.

Because I was a selfish prick.

No—I was something worse.

The kind of man that sees the wreckage coming and doe nothing to stop it.

She started showing up to my apartment wasted or stoned or both—eyes glassy, words slurred. Always louder. Always messier. Conversations circled the same drain: what I could do for her. What she needed.

More attention. More time. More money.

I gave her whatever she wanted. Not because I wanted to. But because it was easier than seeing the truth.

It was never love.

Hell, I’m not even sure it waslike.

It was lust. Ego. The high of being wanted by someone who shouldn’t have wanted me.

If I’d cared—really fucking cared—I would’ve noticed how far gone she was.

I would’ve asked questions. Called someone. Done something.

But I didn’t.

I slow to a stop, chest heaving, sweat dripping off my skin like penance. The cold morning air claws at my throat, but I barely feel it.

What I do feel is the pain.

A sharp, sudden stab, just left of center. Like my heart wants to tear itself out for the part it played. I press my hand there, fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt, like I can hold the past in place—stop it from ripping me open again.

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