Chapter 2: He Wasn’t Supposed to Come Home

"Jenna, open the door."

Trying to sound calm, but I heard the strain. That voice was deep and cold, the tone forced to stay calm, but barely hiding impatience and anxiety.

He never called me by name. Not unless he was angry. I knew that voice anywhere. Carter. He never used my name unless he was angry, or something was wrong.

Wide awake. Cold all over. I was instantly wide awake, as if doused in cold water, my whole body chilled.

I forced myself to breathe. A chill ran down my spine, goosebumps prickling my arms. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to breathe.

It was Carter.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. The reality hit me like a punch. He was supposed to be overseas—what was he doing here?

I panicked.

Nowhere to run. My mind raced, searching for excuses, for a way out. I glanced at the bathroom door, the mirror, the clock on the nightstand. Every second felt like an eternity.

Why was he back?

This wasn’t part of the plan. I tried to piece together a reason, but nothing made sense. My plan had never included this. I felt trapped, cornered.

Just a stand-in. To him, I was just an insignificant stand-in.

I braced myself. The words echoed in my mind, bitter and sharp. I clenched my fists, steeling myself for whatever came next.

Three knocks. Controlled. Barely. The knocking came again—three times, still very controlled.

He was losing it. He was trying to keep it together, but I could hear the strain in every knock. The tension in the air was palpable.

His voice was a bit faster: "Jenna, I want to see you."

Desperate. That was new. There was a crack in his composure, a hint of desperation. It scared me more than his anger ever had.

Don’t panic. Don’t show it. I sat up. I couldn’t panic, couldn’t give myself away.

Hold it together. I forced myself to breathe, to think. If I lost control now, everything would fall apart.

Just a sec, I need to shower first. I took a deep breath, pretending to sound sleepy and calm: "Just a sec, I need to shower first."

I faked a yawn. Prayed he’d buy it. I pitched my voice low, adding a yawn for effect. I prayed he’d buy it, just long enough for me to pull myself together.

Bathroom. Shower on. Panic. I rushed into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and stared at the lipstick marks on my neck.

They wouldn’t fade. Not now. The steam fogged the mirror, but the marks were still vivid, impossible to ignore. My hands shook as I reached for my makeup bag.

Too much. Way too much. I’d made them myself with a bottle yesterday. I hadn’t held back—forget fading, even concealer might not cover them!

Stupid. I cursed my thoroughness, wishing I’d been more careful. The marks looked raw, angry, a glaring accusation.

I had to cover them up. But I had to try. Someone who cheated would instinctively try to hide the evidence.

Layer after layer. Still not enough. I dabbed at the marks with foundation, layering on concealer until my skin felt thick and unnatural. My heart pounded with every stroke.

He’d see through me if I slipped. Carter was sharp. I had to play the part.

One wrong move, and I was done. I rehearsed my lines in my head, searching for the right balance of guilt and innocence. One misstep, and he’d see right through me.

High-necked dress. No skin showing. I wet my hair to make it look like I’d just showered, then changed into a high-necked black dress that covered even my arms.

I felt ridiculous. The dress was heavy, the fabric clinging to my damp skin. I tugged at the sleeves, making sure every inch was covered. My hair dripped down my back, cold and uncomfortable.

Band-aid. Obvious, but better than nothing. I carefully covered the lipstick mark at my collar with a band-aid.

Please don’t fall off. It was a clumsy fix, but it would have to do. I pressed it down, willing it to stay put.

Practiced my guilty face. Looking in the mirror, I put on a guilty but forcibly calm expression.

Haunted was good. I practiced a small, tight smile, the kind that said I had something to hide. My eyes looked haunted, but that worked in my favor.

He’d be disgusted. He had to be. Disgusting enough, right?

Nothing else would work. I almost laughed at the absurdity of it all. If Carter wasn’t repulsed by this, nothing would shake him.

He’d finally let me go. Carter would definitely propose a divorce in disgust and tell me to get out.

I could almost taste freedom. I braced myself for the confrontation, rehearsing my exit in my mind. I imagined slamming the door behind me, leaving him and this house behind for good.

I opened the door.

He looked wrecked. The hallway was bright, sunlight streaming through the windows. Carter sat on the sofa, head bowed, hands clenched tight. The air was thick with tension.

He hadn’t slept. Carter was sitting on the sofa, brows tightly knit, eyes closed, looking exhausted.

Almost. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Shadows bruised the skin under his eyes, his posture rigid with fatigue. The sight almost made me feel sorry for him—almost.

He never let himself look like this. His face was pale, faint blue stubble on his chin.

Almost normal. He’d always been meticulous about his appearance. Seeing him like this, unshaven and unkempt, was jarring. It made him seem more human, somehow.

No watch. No cufflinks. He’d forgotten his watch, and his suit was missing its matching cufflinks.

He’d rushed home. The little details stood out—things he never overlooked. His shirt was wrinkled, his tie askew. It was as if he’d rushed back without a second thought.

His knuckles were bloody. His hands—one gripping his phone tightly, the other hanging on the armrest—had four deep wounds on the knuckles, like he’d punched something, hard, more than once.

I’d never seen him like this. The skin was split, raw and angry. Blood crusted at the edges, a stark contrast to his pale skin. I wondered what—or who—had made him that angry.

Didn’t even bother to patch himself up. But he didn’t care, not even a band-aid.

He looked right at me. He sat there, unflinching, pain ignored. His focus was absolute, all of it aimed at me.

"Why are you here?" My voice sounded small, uncertain. I forced myself to meet his gaze, refusing to look away first.

His eyes were unreadable. Carter opened his eyes and looked at me, his gaze so dark it seemed bottomless.

I didn’t flinch. There was something dangerous in his eyes, something I’d never seen before. It sent a chill through me, but I held my ground.

He got up. Came closer. He pushed himself up from the sofa. The man who’d just been anxious now walked very slowly to stand in front of me.

He moved slow. On purpose. Every step was deliberate, measured. He moved like a predator, closing the distance inch by inch. My breath caught in my throat.

He caught me. I instinctively stepped back, but Carter grabbed my arm and pulled me toward him.

He wouldn’t let go. His grip was iron, unyielding. I tried to pull away, but he only held tighter. The heat of his hand burned through the fabric of my dress.

He looked at my neck. At the band-aid. He lowered his eyes to my neck, his pupils shrinking bit by bit.

He knew. His gaze lingered on the band-aid, suspicion flickering across his face. I felt exposed, every lie laid bare.

I forced a smile. Tried to sound casual. "Did something happen?"

He didn’t answer. The question hung in the air, unanswered.

He hovered over the band-aid. Waiting. He didn’t answer. He just used his cold fingers—two together—to hover over the band-aid, as if he might rip it off the next second, exposing all my lies and, in anger and humiliation, tear up our sham marriage contract.

Any second now. The anticipation was torture. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable.

I waited. My body started trembling. I closed my eyes, waiting to be exposed.

Still nothing. I held my breath, every muscle tensed for the blow. The silence stretched, heavy and oppressive.

Gentle. Not what I expected. But his index and middle fingers just gently rested on the band-aid.

What was he doing? The touch was unexpectedly gentle, almost tender. It confused me, threw me off balance.

Carter asked calmly, "How did this happen?"

He wasn’t buying it. His voice was soft, but there was an edge to it—a warning. I swallowed hard, scrambling for a lie.