You can feel your pulse in your ears when you say it.

“She’s the other woman.”

Simon stares at you, unblinking behind that damn mask, and it almost makes you angrier — the way he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shout, doesn’t do anything.

“She’s my wife,” he says, quiet, like that makes it better.

“No, she’s the one who came after me,” you snap back, voice cracking. “She’s the one sneaking around, pretending like she gets to have you. We— we’ve been together for months, Simon. Months. You told me I was the only one who got to see you like this.”

His jaw tightens, just a flicker of muscle under the mask. “You are not listening.”

You take a step toward him, finger pointed, because if you don’t move, you’ll explode. “No, you don’t get to do that stoic soldier thing right now. You don’t get to stand there and act like this isn’t a betrayal. You—” Your throat closes around the word. “You said you loved me.”

Simon exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s holding back something — anger, maybe, or guilt. “I do,” he says finally. “But she’s not the other woman. She’s—she’s my wife. She’s been my wife for years.”