Chapter Eight
The Ones You Trust
She had a laugh like a secret. That's the first thing he remembered about Emily.
It wasn't the way she wore her hair or the kind of perfume she chose.
It was that laugh—soft, private, like something only he was supposed to hear.
He used to think it meant she was his.
He was wrong.
They met at a gallery downtown, both pretending to understand the art.
She'd teased him for standing too long in front of a blank canvas.
"You know the artist didn't forget to paint it, right?" she'd whispered.
He fell in love in that moment.
By the next year, they were married.
It was a good marriage, in the beginning—built on long drives, shared coffee, and a quiet understanding.
She didn't ask questions he couldn't answer, and he didn't try to fix her restlessness.
But restlessness, he learned too late, has teeth.
Liam had been his best friend since university.
They'd started from nothing—shared apartments, mistakes, ambitions.
When the world shut doors on them, they broke through windows together.
Liam had always been the charming one. Wild. Charismatic. The one people remembered.
Emily included.
But he didn't see it at first. Because why would he? Liam was his brother.
And Emily was his wife.
They laughed together, yes. She liked his jokes.
Sometimes she leaned a little too close, but he didn't think much of it. Why would he?
They were family.
It was subtle in the beginning.
Missed calls. Inside jokes. Glances that lingered a second too long.
He told himself it was nothing. Liam wouldn't do that.
Emily wouldn't let it happen.
Then came the night he found the book.
It was an old poetry collection—dog-eared, familiar.
He remembered giving it to Emily their first Christmas.
Only now it had Liam's name scribbled inside the cover, dated two months ago.
That was the first fracture.
He didn't confront her. Not yet.
He wanted to believe there was some other explanation.
That maybe Liam had borrowed it.
That maybe he was being paranoid.
But a part of him knew.
The truth didn't come in a dramatic confession or an overheard conversation.
It came slowly. Painfully. Like water dripping through a crack in the ceiling until the whole roof caves in.
It came in the way Emily pulled away during their late-night talks.
In how she stopped asking where he was going.
In how she never mentioned Liam anymore.
Silence, he realized, could be more damning than lies.
When he finally asked, she didn't deny it.
She didn't cry. She didn't explain. She just stood in the kitchen, arms folded across her chest, and said quietly:
"I didn't mean for it to happen."
His world tilted.
"How long?"
A pause. Too long.
"I don't know," she whispered. "Longer than it should have."
He wanted to be angry. To scream. To curse Liam's name and burn everything they'd built.
But instead, he just… sat down.
And felt the betrayal settle into his bones.
Liam didn't call.
He sent one message.
I'm sorry. I never planned this. But I love her.
Love. As if that made it better.
As if love wasn't the sharpest weapon of all.
He didn't tell anyone. Didn't explode.
He simply walked out of their apartment one evening and never returned.
It wasn't just his marriage that ended that night.
It was his belief in people.
In loyalty.
In safety.
He shut it all down. Quietly. Permanently.
Now, sitting in the dim glow of his penthouse, that memory pressed in on him like smoke in his lungs.
And he felt it again.
The fear.
Because Liam was back.
And Hazel… she didn't just resemble Emily.
She had her spark. Her soul.
And if Liam saw her the way he once saw Emily—
If history dared to repeat itself—
This time, he wouldn't just walk away.