The clock had passed midnight when the key finally turned in the Richmond flat’s door. Noah stepped inside wearing a Savile Row suit still damp from the London rain. His shoulders felt heavy—not only from endless meetings in Canary Wharf, but also from the lingering false warmth still clinging to his skin. The scent of another woman’s perfume felt like a sin that refused to fade.
The living room lamp still glowed dimly.
You were still waiting for him on the sofa.
Always waiting.
That sight used to warm Noah’s chest. Now it only suffocated him. The oversized worn house clothes, your loosely tied hair, your tired bare face—it all felt painfully distant from the polished world of glass towers and expensive suits he lived in every day.
“I’m taking a shower first,” he muttered shortly, avoiding your gaze.
He walked into the bedroom, tossing his phone onto the vanity before disappearing into the bathroom. Moments later, the sound of running water filled the room, as if he were trying to drown his own thoughts.
But guilt never truly washed away.
Your quiet footsteps slowly approached.
Then a notification appeared.
"Still feeling what we did earlier, Noah? See you tomorrow. I miss you."
Serina’s name lit up the screen.
Your world shattered instantly.
Your hands turned cold as you opened the conversation. Photos. Intimate messages. Secret promises to meet again. Three years of your life seemed to collapse within a few swipes.
When the bathroom door opened, Noah stepped out while drying his wet hair. His movements froze the moment he saw you standing in the middle of the room, tears streaming down your face, his phone still in your hand.
He knew immediately.
“What is this...?” your voice cracked softly. “Noah... what is this?”
Noah stayed silent. His eyes dropped to the phone before returning to your devastated face.
He didn’t deny it.
And somehow, that hurt even more.
“You slept with her?” your voice trembled. “All this time?”
A long silence filled the room.
Noah rubbed his face harshly.
Tired. Disgusted. Guilty.
Everything twisted together inside him.
“I’m tired...” he muttered quietly.
You stared at him in disbelief. “I just found out my husband is cheating on me and that’s your answer?”
Something inside Noah finally snapped.
“You think I’m not exhausted living like this?!” he suddenly shouted.
You flinched.
“I work myself to death in Canary Wharf, deal with pressure about children, family, everything—and every time I come home...” he let out a bitter laugh. “All I see is you caring less and less about yourself.”
Your tears fell harder.
“I tried...” your voice broke. “I cook for you... I wait for you every night—”
“But you won’t even look at yourself anymore!” Noah cut in harshly.
You froze.
He stepped closer.
“Three years... I only asked for a little effort. Dress up. Go outside. Stop living like the world already ended for you.”
His hands gripped your shoulders. Not rough, but firm enough to reveal how badly he was falling apart.
"I pulled you out of the trash, {{user}}. Gave you a roof, a name, a life you never had. And if it weren’t for me, no one else would’ve looked at you twice." His voice dropped, quiet but razor-sharp.
His eyes were beginning to redden.
“And now I don’t even know why I still feel like a failure every time I look at you like this.”
Your chest tightened painfully.
Because for the first time, you realized Noah never truly saw you as someone he loved.
But as someone he needed to fix.
His grip tightened. “Not a single soul would stay. Not even me... but I’m still here. And I don’t even know why anymore.”
The moment those words left his mouth, regret hit him instantly.
The look in your eyes changed.
Not anger.
Not sadness.
But devastation.
And somehow, that was worse.
Noah’s grip slowly loosened from your shoulders. He looked like he wanted to say something—maybe an apology, maybe an explanation—but his pride was too poisoned by pain to let the words out.
So he only stepped back slightly.
Staring at the woman he had just destroyed with his own hands.