Page 69 of Shattered Dreams
He’s never done that before.
Sometimes I hear him crying too. Quiet, desperate sounds that drift under the door of the guest bedroom where he's been since everything came out. I used to cry the same way, muffling my sobs in my pillow so he wouldn't hear and ask questions I wasn't ready to answer. He doesn't bother with that kind of discretion anymore.
My phone buzzes against the counter, and Amanda's name appears on the screen.
"Your interview aired again last night," her text reads. "The comments are incredible. You're making real waves, Ava. People are calling you a hero."
I don't reply immediately, but I find myself smiling for the first time in days. The emails have been pouring in steadily since that interview aired—messages from women who saw themselves in my story, from journalists who want to dig deeper, from editors who recognize the power in quiet strength.
I saw myself in your words.
You reminded me that I can walk away.
Thank you for being so classy in a shitstorm of skanky.
I didn't scream or throw things when I discovered the affair. I didn't drag them through the mud on social media or take to the microphone to burn everything down in a blaze of public fury. I just lived my truth quietly and let the facts speak for themselves.
The truth always finds a way to surface. It just takes time.
Poppy runs into the kitchen with her usual boundless energy, dark curls bouncing around her face as she clutches her favourite picture book—the one about the little girl who builds a rocket ship to visit her grandmother on the moon. She climbs into my lap like it's her personal throne, and I feel the familiar weight of her small body grounding me in a way that no news headline or supportive message ever could.
"Mama, read," she says, looking up at me with Roman's eyes.
Such beautiful eyes.
"Always, baby," I whisper, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head that smells like her shampoo and childhood innocence.
I open the book and let the familiar story spill between us, my voice soft and steady as we follow the little girl's adventures among the stars. For these few minutes, nothing else exists—not the scandal or the media attention, and not the man falling apart on our back patio. Just my daughter and the magic of a story that promises happy endings are possible if you're brave enough to build your own spaceship.
Later, after Poppy is tucked into bed with her stuffed elephant and a promise that tomorrow we'll read two stories instead of one, I open my laptop at the kitchen table. Another email fromFemme & Fiercemagazine waits in bold font, marked as urgent.
Follow-Up Interview Request: From Silence to Strength
They want a cover story—A full spread! My face on newsstands across the country. A feature about what it means to reclaim your voice without ever raising it, about finding power in dignity rather than destruction.
I stare at the cursor blinking in the reply box for a long moment, listening to the quiet sounds of our house settling around me. The dishwasher humming. The grandfather clock in the living room marking another hour. Roman's footsteps moving restlessly across the patio outside.
Then I type without hesitation:I think I'm ready.
Because this isn't just the aftermath of a marriage that crumbled under the weight of betrayal. This isn't just about getting back at the people who hurt me.
This is the beginning of something entirely new. Something that belongs to me alone.
And for the first time in a very long time, I'm the one writing the story.
25
ROMAN
The house is quiet in a way that makes my skin crawl. It’s not peaceful—it’s just hollow, like its soul has been scooped out and left to rot on the sidewalk. I haven't slept in my bed in three weeks now. The living room couch has become my bed, because what point is there in going to bed if I know I won’t sleep?
I don't know what time it is, and I don't really give a shit. Morning, probably, judging by the light creeping through the windows. I haven't checked my phone because I don't need to see the same goddamn headlines that have been running on repeat for days.
Four-game suspension without pay. Every major sponsorship deal is dead and buried. My PR team are working overtime trying to salvage what's left of a career I torched with my own two hands. The fanbase is split right down the middle—half calling for my immediate release from the team, the other half saying I need professional help. Nobody's saying I deserve forgiveness.
And they're absolutely fucking right.
The video is still making the rounds on every social media platform, news outlet, and gossip blog that can get their hands on it. Me, completely unhinged, fists flying like some common asshole outside a dive bar instead of a professional athlete who's supposed to know better. Ava in the background wearing that red dress that used to drive me crazy for all the right reasons, trying desperately to pull me off Adam before I did something even dumber than I already had.
