Page 80 of Slightly Married
I raised an eyebrow, surprised by this unexpected turn. “No.”
“It was after Dimitrios was born. Your father had a vasectomy without consulting me, though he knew how desperately I wanted a daughter.” She traced her teacup’s rim with one finger. “I was furious. I didn’t speak to him for nearly six months.”
The parallel to my own situation wasn’t lost on me. “What changed?”
“He tried reasoning with me first.” Her eyes crinkled at the memory. “I wouldn’t hear it. Then one evening, he did something I’d never seen before.” She paused. “He kneeled before me with tears in his eyes and said he was afraid of losing me more than he feared anything in life. With each of my deliveries, I nearly bled out. He refused to put my life at risk again despite my desperation for a daughter.”
I stared at her, struggling to reconcile this with the formidable man I’d known. “Father cried?”
“Indeed.” Her voice softened. “Your father was brilliant in business, but like you, he struggled to express what lay in his heart. When he finally did, I forgave him.”
I shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t cry.”
“Which is precisely why you’re sleeping alone while your pregnant wife refuses to speak to you.” The bluntness of her statement was tempered by compassion. “You present arguments when she needs emotions, Konstantinos. Justifications when she needs to hear your heart.”
“I wouldn’t know where to begin,” I admitted.
“Start with the truth that scares you most,” she said simply, rising from her chair. “The one that makes you feel exposed.” She paused at the doorway. “The one you’re afraid to say aloud.”
Long after she’d gone, I sat contemplating her words. The most frightening truth wasn’t my longing for Kayla or my desire to salvage our marriage. It was the depth of my love for her, a feeling so essential that without her, I felt stripped bare and incomplete.
I pulled out my phone and opened my email app. Kayla’s address auto-populated as soon as I tapped the compose button.
Michaila,
I paused, thumb hovering over the screen. Words had never been difficult for me in business contexts. But this was different. I deleted and rewrote the opening three times before continuing.
I respect your need for space. I understand why you’re angry.
No, that wasn’t right. I deleted it. The statement was factually accurate but failed to convey what I actually felt.
I miss you.
I looked at those three simple words, surprised by how inadequate they seemed compared to the void taking residence in my chest since she’d left. I continued writing.
I miss the way you laugh when something genuinely amuses you. I miss you curling against me in your sleep, seeking warmth even on summer nights. I miss the discussions we have over breakfast about everything and nothing.
Each day without you feels like navigating a city whose map has suddenly changed. The landmarks are the same, but the paths between them no longer make sense.
I stopped typing, reading over what I’d written. The sentiments were true, yet the words were foreign. I’d never been this...expressive before. It made me uncomfortable, yet there was also a strange relief in seeing these thoughts exist outside of myself.
I know that actions matter more than words. Trust, once broken, cannot be restored with promises alone. I am trying to find ways to make amends, but I also want you to know that—
My fingers stilled. The sentence hung incomplete. After a long moment, I forced myself to type the words I’d never said aloud.
I love you, Michaila. Not because of our arrangement or the child we’ve created, but because of who you are and who I am when I’m with you. You deserve to know the truth of what I feel, even if it changes nothing between us.
I read over the message, feeling strangely exposed. With my thumb hovering over the send button, the small blue arrow pulsed.
I exited the app after several minutes. These weren’t words to be delivered through an email.
At the beginning of the third week, Simone intercepted me before I’d even reached the main entrance of the mansion. She stepped out from behind one of the manicured hedges flanking the cobblestone driveway, the early fall air turning her breath visible in small white puffs.
“This is becoming pathetic,” she said, arms crossed over her camel-colored coat. Her hostility was undisguised.
“Perhaps,” I conceded, “but she’s my reason.”
Her expression softened fractionally, the hard line of her mouth relaxing. “She’s hurt, Konstantin.”
