Page 80 of Shattered Dreams
I read the letter three times before the words finally sink in. I don’t know what to feel, but that doesn’t sound like the Roman I knew, which has to be a good thing, right?
I fold it carefully and tuck it back into the envelope, my hands steadier now than they were when I opened it.
I sit in the kitchen for a long time after that, listening to Poppy's cartoons, staring at the envelope.
I don't know what this letter means for us. For me. For the future I'm still trying to build from the ashes of the life I thought I wanted.
But I know what it doesn't mean.
It doesn't mean I'm ready to forgive him. It doesn't mean I'm ready to trust him with my heart again. It doesn't mean I'm going to call him or text him or show up at whatever hotel he's staying in now.
It just means I believe, for the first time since this all started, that he might finally be trying to change. Not for me, not for the cameras, not for his image.
For himself.
And damn. I can’t help but root for him.
29
AVA
The message comes through just after eight, while I'm curled up on the couch with a glass of wine and a book I haven't actually been reading for the past hour.
ROMAN: I'm not asking for another chance. Just dinner. No expectations.
I stare at the screen until the words blur together. Read it again. Then again.
There's a moment—half a heartbeat—where I go to delete it. My finger hovers over the screen, my heart in my throat. Whatever I decide now could change everything. Everything about him still carries the risk of destruction. The risk of falling back into old patterns, old hurts, old versions of myself that I've worked so hard to leave behind.
But I don't delete it.
Instead, I set the phone down and walk to my closet. Stand there for ten minutes, staring at hangers full of clothes that represent the woman I've become since he left. Professional blazers from speaking engagements. Casual dresses for coffeedates with friends who've helped me rebuild my social circle. Workout clothes that have seen me through countless therapy sessions disguised as runs through the park.
Then I see it. The red dress.
It's hanging in the back, like I was hiding it from myself. Like I wasn't sure I'd ever be brave enough to wear it again. It still fits like a second skin when I slide it on, still feels like power when the fabric settles over my curves. I smooth it over my hips, checking my reflection in the mirror. The woman looking back at me isn't the broken wife who discovered her husband's betrayal. She's not the shell of a person who cried herself to sleep for months.
She's someone new. Someone stronger.
I add lipstick—again, blood red to match the dress—and pin my curls to one side, the way I used to when we first started dating and everything felt like a possibility. He used to say this dress made me look like sin and salvation all at once. Like something he wanted to worship and destroy in equal measure.
I won't be wearing it for him tonight, though.
I wear it for myself. For the woman who survived his betrayal and came out the other side with her head held high.
The restaurant he picked is quiet. Not flashy or trying to impress anyone. Just one of those tucked-away places with soft lighting and dark wood tables where conversations happen in hushed tones. When I arrive, he's already there, sitting at a corner table with his back to the wall like he's protecting himself from the world.
Roman Muller.
Once, he looked like a king at every table—confident, magnetic, bigger than any room he walked into. The kind of man who commanded attention without asking for it, who made heads turn and conversations stop just by existing.
But tonight?
He's just a man.
His shoulders are still broad, but they carry weight now. Real weight, not just the physical kind he's always been proud of. His jaw is tight, but not in the defensive way I remember from our worst fights. And his eyes, when they meet mine across the restaurant, don't burn with the rage or ego I've grown accustomed to.
They're shattered. Like looking into broken glass that's been carefully swept up but never quite put back together.
