You had an affair.

And now, sitting on the edge of a bed beside a handsome young man wrapped in nothing but a white bathrobe, you found yourself wondering when exactly you had stopped feeling guilty about it.

You went home as usual.

Shoes off at the entrance. Coat hung up. The familiar scent of your home greeted you. Theodore Whitmore, your husband, came over with a box of cake from your favorite bakery.

He had always been generous with gifts. It wasn't particularly unusual. Still, you couldn't help wondering whether this one came with a guilty conscience attached.

You accepted it.

"Darling, have you ever wondered what you'd do if I cheated on you?"

Theodore looked at you, perhaps caught off guard by the sudden question.

Before he could answer, you chuckled.

"Never mind. I'm only teasing."

You tilted your head just enough for the mark on your neck to become visible.

He glanced at it.

There was a brief pause before he smiled apologetically.

"Sorry, sweetheart. Did I leave it a little too dark last time? I'll be more careful."

You almost laughed.

He thought he'd done it.

You couldn't even remember the last time the two of you had shared a bed in any meaningful sense.

"Mm. It's fine."

You smiled and accepted his explanation.

How wonderfully convenient.

You couldn't remember when things had started going wrong. There wasn't a particular day you could point to, no spectacular argument or dramatic falling-out. It had happened gradually, almost imperceptibly.

You and Theodore had known each other since you were eight.

What began as a childhood friendship eventually became something everyone around you considered inevitable. You went to the same schools, grew up in the same circles, attended the same university, and eventually inherited the companies your respective families had built.

Your parents adored the match. Your friends called you childhood sweethearts. A marriage between the two of you had always seemed like the natural conclusion to a story that had begun long before either of you understood what love was.

And it hadn't been entirely a marriage of convenience, either.

You remembered the eight-year-old Theodore who had tried to protect you and lost a tooth in the process, accidentally swallowing it before insisting, with an absurd amount of pride, that he was perfectly fine.

You remembered his stubborn little pout whenever you got along a little too well with another boy. How he'd sulk for hours, refusing to admit he was jealous, until you finally coaxed him into talking again.

You remembered him studying himself half to death just to get into the same university as you.

You remembered his excitement on your wedding day, so poorly concealed that even the guests could see it.

And you remembered the gifts.

Every single one of them.

Especially the planetarium.

You had been having a miserable day when Theodore decided to buy the place outright. He even arranged for a star to be officially named after you.

A star that would belong to you, at least in name, for as long as anyone cared to look up at the night sky.

It was ridiculous. Extravagant. Entirely unnecessary.

And, at the time, perhaps the most romantic thing you could have imagined.

You had loved him for more than a decade.

Yet now, looking into those same familiar eyes, you found yourself feeling nothing.

Not anger. Not hatred. Not even the bitter ache of a broken heart.

Just a faint, almost absurd sense of amusement.

When had the man you once loved so dearly become someone you could barely be bothered to hate?

Trust hadn't disappeared overnight.

It had worn away through cancelled plans, unexplained absences, suspicious business trips, and little lies that never quite added up. One excuse became another, and eventually, you stopped asking questions.

You found the answers yourself.

At first, you had wanted to confront him. You imagined the arguments, the accusations, the humiliating scene you might make. You wanted to drag the other woman into the light and make her regret ever laying a finger on what was yours.

Then you saw them together at the planetarium.

The very planetarium Theodore had once bought for you.

He was sitting beside a young woman, their shoulders almost touching, both of them gazing up at the stars. And when he looked at her, there was an unmistakable tenderness in his eyes.

You remembered standing outside a hospital room one day, visiting a sick friend, when you overheard a familiar voice.

The young woman was pleading with Theodore not to make her get rid of his child.

His child.

And then he turned around and saw you.

For one brief moment, you saw the panic in his expression. But it was gone almost immediately. He composed himself, approached you, and began speaking as though the conversation you had just overheard had never happened.

He lied to your face.

Quite convincingly, too.

You didn't even feel the urge to slap him.

The other woman wasn't particularly subtle about it, either. She sent you ultrasound pictures, followed by increasingly brazen messages meant to provoke you. You never replied. Not once.

Well, that wasn't entirely true.

You simply found a different way to respond.

His name was Damian Cross.

A rising star under your company's management, Damian was practically untouchable in the entertainment industry. Cold, aloof, notoriously difficult to approach. His striking looks and intimidating presence had earned him a reputation as something of an untouchable heartthrob, both on-screen and off.

You had initially taken an interest in him for purely professional reasons. He was talented, marketable, and had a promising future. His commercial value turned out to be considerably greater than you had anticipated.

The fact that he also happened to be an excellent choice for an affair was an unexpected bonus.

He was younger than you, devastatingly handsome, and possessed a rather dangerous sort of charm. A little like a wolf, really. He could be aloof and intimidating one moment, then shamelessly cling to you the next, finding every possible excuse to keep you around.

His stamina was frankly ridiculous. You sometimes wondered whether he was entirely human.

And despite his usual cold demeanor, he seemed to have an uncanny ability to tell when you were upset. He knew when to comfort you, when to make you laugh, and, more importantly, when to simply hold his tongue.

He could be surprisingly restrained, too.

You sometimes felt a little guilty about that.

After all, you had approached him with ulterior motives. He was supposed to be a convenient distraction, a pretty little weapon in a rather petty war against your husband.

But Damian had apparently developed ideas of his own.

Money and career opportunities, the very things you had initially assumed he wanted, seemed to matter less and less to him. You noticed the way he held himself back whenever you were upset, how he would quietly ask you to stay a little longer, and how he always seemed reluctant to let you leave for home.

He was, apparently, under the impression that if he played his cards right, he might actually win over his notoriously cold and demanding female CEO.

How ridiculous.

And, unfortunately, rather endearing.

Perhaps that was why you never bothered to correct him.

Somewhere along the way, you even began indulging his whims.

You started wearing extravagant, eye-catching outfits you would once have dismissed as far too flashy. You tried street food you had never considered eating, visited places you had never bothered to see, and agreed to do things that would once have been entirely out of character.

Some of those things, incidentally, were experiences you had never even shared with Theodore.

Damian was an interesting man. More than interesting, really.

You leaned back with a quiet laugh, almost amused by your own discovery.

"So this is what I've been missing?"

As for Theodore...

You knew him better than almost anyone. You suspected he still loved you, in his own way.

Perhaps he enjoyed having both women. Perhaps he had grown so accustomed to your devotion that he no longer considered the possibility of losing it. Perhaps he simply believed that you would always be there, regardless of what he did.

He had forgotten something rather important.

You were never his subordinate. Never his possession. Never some sheltered wife who owed him her gratitude.

You had your own family, your own company, your own influence and ambitions. You had built an empire of your own, and you were every bit his equal.

He had simply grown too comfortable to remember.

But that was his problem now.

You had no intention of fighting for a man who had already made his choice.

You had no intention of competing with another woman for a place that had once been yours.

And you certainly had no intention of begging for the affection of a husband who had mistaken your patience for weakness.

You had loved Theodore Whitmore for most of your life.

But you were done loving him.