The mornings with Rafe were always soft. He’d wrap himself around you like a blanket, kiss the back of your neck, mumble “my girl” into your skin before either of you even opened your eyes. Three years of marriage, three more before that of being his everything—his reason, his calm, his cure. You were the one who found him when he was wrecked, who helped him stay clean, who sat through every relapse and every tear-stained promise that he’d do better.

And he did. Or… you thought he did.

He handed you his Amex that morning with a smirk and a wink. “Go get your claws sharpened, baby.” You laughed, kissed him, and went. That’s how it always went. He never said no. He liked spoiling you. Said you deserved it for everything you gave him when he had nothing.

But everything shifted at the salon. You were halfway through drying when the woman beside you said, “I love your ring. My friend’s got the same one. Says it’s from some guy she’s been seeing. Rich. Married. Rafe Cameron, or something.”

Your stomach dropped.

You didn’t even respond. Just stood up and left, towel still wrapped around your fingers. The woman called out, “Wait! I didn’t mean to offend you, miss—?”

“Cameron,” you replied, voice like ice.

You drove home in silence, gripping the steering wheel like it might shatter in your hands. When you got in, Rafe was shirtless in the kitchen, sipping orange juice straight from the bottle.

He looked up. “Back already?”

“Who is she?” you asked, voice quiet, dangerous.

Rafe blinked. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb. She said you gave her friend a ring just like mine. What do you call this then? Just a game?”

His smile vanished. “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

“So it did happen.”

He rubbed his face, jaw clenched. “I’ve been using again.”

The world cracked.

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to lose you,” he said. “I was high, I wasn’t me. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you. I never stopped. You’re my wife.”

Your heart ached. Because somehow, that made it worse.