After my shower, I threw on oversized shirt—Aiden's, probably—and padded to Oliver's room.

Space wallpaper, shelves crammed with books and toys. He was out cold, clutching his teddy.

I tugged the blanket higher. His little hand caught my finger.

"Mommy... don't go..." he mumbled.

Tears stung. I sat on the edge of his bed until his grip loosened.

Closing the door, I froze. Aiden was in the hall.

Dim light. Barely a foot between us. His body wash—cedar and mint—hit me.

"You were in there a while," he said.

"I was just... watching him sleep."

"You never used to do that."

There it was again—'used to.' Who the hell had I been?

"Aiden," I asked, looking up, "were we... happy before?"

He stayed quiet so long I thought he'd leave me hanging.

"We were," he said at last. "We were really happy."

"What changed?"

"You did." His fingers grazed my cheek, so soft it stung. "Success changed you. Fame changed you. You started living in clubs and online... and I was just a boring lawyer who couldn't keep up with Sophia Harrison—the big-shot interior designer, Instagram star."

Interior designer? Me?

Before I could even process, he dropped his hand.

"Goodnight, Sophia. Lawyer's coming at nine for the final review."

He started toward the master. I trailed after him.

"Wait. Can't we talk?"

"Talk about what?" He spun back. "How you spent a weekend with that French artist while I was on a business trip?"

French artist? No clue.

"I don't remember—"

"Enough." He cut me off, shoving the bedroom door open.

I slipped in behind him. Our room once—now it felt like someone else's.

He frowned at me in the doorway. "What are you doing?"

"I... I want to sleep here. The guest room's freezing."

He let out a sharp laugh. "Sophia, you haven't slept here in six months."

"Please. Just tonight."

He stared, then walked into the bathroom without a word.

I slid under the covers on one side.

Ten minutes later, he came out in just sleep pants. Even in the low light, his chest and abs were all definition—five years hadn't touched his gym grind.

"Which side do you usually sleep on?" I asked.

"You don't remember?" His voice dripped sarcasm. "Or did you spend so much time in other people's beds you forgot your own husband's?"

The words sliced clean through me.

He slid into bed on the other side, back turned, and killed the light.

Darkness. His breathing steady. The mattress dipped with his weight.

We were inches apart, yet it felt like miles.

I rolled over, hunting for a comfortable spot. My head throbbed where I'd hit it, arm still sore from the fall.

I shifted my shoulder, trying to ease the sting.

"Stop moving," he muttered in the dark.

"Sorry. My arm hurts."

Silence.

I thought he was out until I sat up, tugging at the oversized shirt.

A hand clamped my wrist. The world flipped, and suddenly I was pinned under him. His weight crushed the air from my lungs.

"What are you trying to do?" His voice was low, rough, straining.

"I... I didn't—"

"Didn't what?" His face hovered inches from mine, breath hot. "Didn't mean to undress? Didn't mean to seduce me?"

His eyes dragged to my collarbone, his arms taut like he was barely holding back.

"No!" I shoved at him, but he didn't move.

Moonlight cut through the curtains, lighting his face—anger, hurt... and something else. Desire. His pupils blown wide, breath uneven.

"Five years, Sophia," his voice scraped like it hurt to speak. "Do you even know what you look like right now... in my shirt, in our bed... Do you know what that does to me?"

His fingers trembled as they brushed my cheek, pausing at my lips.

"Just like our wedding night," his voice cracked. "You looked at me the same way, and then we..."

He broke off, body shaking, trapped between wanting and resisting.