Page 41 of No Turning Back
The flames lick greedily at the box, curling photos, swallowing old letters, erasing pieces of a life I don’t want anymore.
“Feels like we burned more than a couch tonight,” I murmur.
Sam leans back in his chair, eyes on the fire. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Feels that way.”
The night stretches around us, big, star-filled, endless. Neither of us moves to go inside.
“Can I ask you something?” Sam says after a while.
“Sure.”
“What happened with you and Ortega?”
The question cuts through the night like a blade. I think about how much to reveal, how much I can stand to put into words.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Sam adds quickly. His voice is gentler now, like he already regrets asking.
I swallow, still staring at the flames. “He cheated on me.”
Sam’s head snaps toward me. “What?”
I nod, bitterness tightening my throat. “Slept with his best friend. The one who was supposedly just a sister to him.” My voice goes sharp, brittle. “We were already having problems, but that… that was the one thing I couldn’t forgive.”
Sam shifts, expression unreadable in the firelight. “Because of your dad.”
My head jerks toward him. “What?”
He scratches his beard, glancing away. “You told me once. About your parents. Their toxic marriage. You said if your husband ever cheated, you’d walk. No second chances.”
A laugh escapes me, dry and cracked, nothing like humour. “It’s ironic, isn’t it? I spent my whole life trying not to end up like my mom. I swore I’d never be the woman who stayed with a cheater. And here I am. Married to a man who cheated. Picking up the wreckage of his mess.”
Sam doesn’t say anything right away, just watches the flames with me. The firelight carves lines across his face, sharp and soft all at once.
Finally, he says, voice low, steady: “Quinn… that’s not on you. A man cheats, that’s his weakness. His choice. His failure. Not yours.”
I swallow, hard.
“You didn’t stay,” he adds, glancing at me then back at the fire. “That’s the difference. You walked. You got away.”
The words land heavier than I expect. My throat goes tight, eyes stinging. I hug my knees closer to my chest, pretending the firelight is what makes them burn.
For a long moment, neither of us says anything. The couch-turned-bonfire crackles and hisses, sending sparks up into the endless sky.
Chapter Thirteen
Quinn
I’m sitting in the conference room with my lawyer, waiting for Markus and his lawyer to show up, which is actual bullshit becausethey’rethe ones who called this deposition. And this istheirlaw firm. But whatever.
Markus had twenty days to file an answer with the court after getting the papers, and guess when he filed it? On the twentieth day. Of course. Motherfucker.
And what’s he contesting? Apparently, he’s claiming that because I once wanted a kid, I somehow have a “stake” inhiskid’s life. You know, the one he made with someone else. Thankfully, the judge laughed him and his sleazy lawyer right out of the room. Still can’t believe a grown woman would seriously argue that a wife should have legal responsibility for her husband’s affair child.
But that wasn’t the only shitshow. He’s also demanding the house, which my lawyer proposed be sold and split fifty-fifty, plus half my inheritanceandspousal alimony. Like I said:motherfucker.
The judge didn’t make a call on that at the temporary hearing, just ordered discovery and mediation.
So, now here we are, two months after I moved out. Two months since I finally realized what a complete piece of shit, I married.
