Chapter 4: Breaking Point

A week later, Jason Hartman came back from his business trip. It was already ten at night.

The sky outside was inky black. His silver BMW pulled quietly into the drive. In the past, Maddie and I would’ve baked cookies, left the porch light on, waited for the sound of his key in the door. Tonight, there was only darkness and the far-off hum of sprinklers.

Maddie was already in bed, and I was in the guest room on the second floor, my suitcase half-packed in the closet.

Standing on the balcony, I stared at the message from six days ago: his vasectomy record.

The streetlamp outside threw yellow lines across the glass. My phone felt heavy in my palm, the words stinging my eyes every time I read them.

"Emily, if you’re willing, just say the word. I’ll treat Maddie as my own. From now on, she’ll be my only daughter—no, my only child."

It was an awkward, too-late plea. My thumb hovered over the screen, uncertain.

I stood there until the phone went dark, until I heard Jason’s footsteps on the stairs. He paused outside the guest room door.

I held my breath, listening to the floor creak, the hesitation in his step as he realized I wasn’t in the master bedroom.

Then, a knock.

It was soft but insistent. Jason never knocked twice.

"Emily, open the door."

His voice was muffled, tired, but still controlled. I pictured his hand tightening on the knob.

I wiped my tears and shoved my phone under the pillow.

I scrubbed my cheeks, hoping the redness wouldn’t give me away. The phone nearly slipped through the bed slats.

"I’m sleeping. If there’s anything, let’s talk tomorrow—"

I tried to sound casual, but my voice cracked.

But before I could finish, he opened the door from the outside.

He never waited for permission. The lock was only a suggestion. He stood in the doorway, backlit by the hall, jaw tight.

I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly self-conscious in my old college T-shirt. His gaze swept the room, then landed on me.

"Why did you move to the guest room?"

His tone was sharp—like I’d rearranged something important without asking.

I sat up, looking at him. He looked tired, lines around his mouth deeper than I remembered.

I forced myself to look away. "I haven’t been feeling well. I didn’t want to get you sick."

He didn’t care. "I don’t care about that. Move back."

He said it like it was obvious. For him, discomfort was never a reason for anything.

When I didn’t move, his frown deepened. "Emily?"

He expected obedience, not resistance. The question was sharp as a reprimand.

"I want to sleep. You should rest too..."

My voice was barely there, my fingers twisting the comforter.

Jason didn’t reply. He crossed the room, leaned over, and picked me up in his arms.

It was abrupt, almost rough. He never liked hearing no.

"It’s been a week. Don’t you want to?"

His hand slid down my arm, breath warm against my neck. Once, this would have melted me. Not now.

He leaned in to kiss me. I turned my face away, automatic.

He looked shocked, then angry, then the icy mask returned.

"Emily, what kind of tantrum are you throwing?"

His voice was clipped, incredulous. He couldn’t imagine me saying no.