Chapter 2: The House That Never Was Mine

I took a long bath. Stood outside Harrison’s study for ages before I finally pushed the door open.

The steam from my bath still clung to my skin, the warmth quickly fading as I approached the door. I hesitated, hand hovering over the knob, remembering all the times I’d been told to stay away. But something inside me snapped—I needed answers, closure, something to hold onto.

The day after our wedding, he’d told me coldly:

“Don’t go into my study without permission.”

His words had stung, sharp and final. I’d nodded, swallowing my pride, determined not to overstep. I wanted to be the perfect wife, to give him space, to earn his trust.

“If you must go in, don’t touch anything.”

I’d loved him since I was a kid, so of course I always listened.

Obedience was second nature to me. Was it really love, or just habit? I told myself it was love, that patience would be rewarded. But deep down, I was always afraid—afraid of losing him, of being too much, of not being enough.

But now, I stood at his desk.

The room was exactly as I’d imagined—orderly, austere, every book and trinket in its place. I ran my fingers over the desktop, feeling the grain of the wood, the coldness of the glass paperweight. My heart pounded, adrenaline making my hands shake.

I picked up the book lying face down and found a small photo tucked inside.

The book was well-worn, the spine creased from countless readings. The photo slipped out, landing softly on the desk. I picked it up, my breath catching as I recognized the girl in the picture.

The photo was old.

The edges were curled, the colors faded. Julia’s smile was soft, her eyes bright with youth and hope. She looked like someone who belonged in another life, another story.

The girl in it looked young and innocent, smiling at the camera with a gentle, shy expression.

A smile that lingered. Made you want to know her story. I felt a pang of envy, a sense of loss for something I never really had.

On the back, there were a few lines:

“To Harrison—Julia.”

Her handwriting was playful, looping letters trailing off at the end. It was intimate, familiar—a private joke I wasn’t part of.

Beneath that was Harrison’s handwriting:

“I think of you, I miss you, never forgotten, not even for a night.”

The words were raw, vulnerable. I traced them with my thumb, feeling the weight of a love that had never faded. My heart broke all over again.

As the tears rolled down my cheeks, I suddenly laughed.

It was a bitter, hollow sound, echoing off the walls. I laughed at my own blindness, at the years I’d spent chasing a dream that was never mine. The tears came faster, hot and unstoppable.

I’d thought Maple Heights—the name of our home—came from its tranquil beauty.

I’d imagined it was inspired by the trees that lined the driveway, their leaves blazing red and gold every fall. I’d told everyone it was my favorite place in the world, a sanctuary of peace and hope.

But now I realized with a jolt: maybe he named it Maple Heights because of her—Julia loved maple trees.

Oh. The realization hit me like a wave. All those little details—the maple syrup in the fridge, the pressed leaves in the guest room, the way he always insisted on driving the scenic route in autumn. They weren’t for me. They never were.

I put the photo down.

My hands shook as I placed it back on the desk, careful not to disturb anything else. I wiped my cheeks, forcing myself to breathe, to stand tall. I wouldn’t let him see me broken.

Wiping away my tears, I couldn’t help but mock myself for being so slow to see it.

The signs had always been there, scattered like breadcrumbs. I’d just refused to follow them, too afraid of what I’d find at the end of the trail.

Not long ago, Harrison suddenly started flying to Paris a lot.

He claimed it was for business, but his eyes always darted away when I asked questions. The trips grew longer, the excuses thinner. I told myself not to worry, to trust him, but the doubt gnawed at me.

I’d thought it was for work and didn’t pay much attention.

I filled my days with errands, volunteering at the local library, hosting dinner parties. Anything to distract myself from the growing emptiness in our home.

And for nearly a month, the man who used to be so passionate in bed had grown distant.

Colder. Emptier. Nights became colder, the space between us wider. He’d turn away when I reached for him, his touch mechanical when it came at all. I tried to bridge the gap, but he only pulled further away.

Even the other night, when I swallowed my pride and made the first move, he pushed me away.

It was humiliating, the rejection sharp and final. I’d never felt so unwanted, so invisible. I lay awake for hours, replaying every moment, searching for the point where it all went wrong.

But after we married, he’d wanted me almost every night.

Those early days were a blur of passion, his desire burning away the awkwardness. I’d convinced myself it meant something, that I was special. But now, I see it for what it was—a distraction, a way to forget someone else.

His passion always made me forget how cold and silent he was during the day.

I clung to those nights, ignoring the emptiness that filled the daylight hours. I told myself love could grow in the dark, that intimacy would breed connection. But I was wrong.

Only now did I realize—it had always been a one-sided performance, just me acting out my own little drama.

The truth settled over me, heavy and inescapable. I was the only one fighting for us, the only one who believed we could be happy. I felt foolish, exposed, but strangely free.

But if he’d already loved someone else, why did he cling to me that drunken night three years ago?

The question haunted me, refusing to let go. I replayed that night over and over, searching for answers I’d never find.

On my twenty-first birthday, Harrison suddenly burst into my room, reeking of whiskey.

I’d never seen him like that. The door slammed open, startling me out of sleep. He stumbled in, eyes wild, the scent of whiskey thick in the air. I sat up, heart pounding, unsure whether to be afraid or hopeful.

“Lillian, you want this so badly?”

His voice was rough, almost cruel. He stared at me like a challenge, daring me to deny it. I couldn’t speak, could barely breathe.

He tore my thin nightgown, his dark eyes full of wild desire.

The fabric ripped easily, the sound loud in the quiet room. His hands were urgent, almost desperate, as if he was trying to erase something—or someone—else.

“Then I’ll give you what you want.”

He kissed me—hot and lingering.

His lips were harsh, claiming, leaving no room for doubt. I melted beneath him, my own longing tangled with fear. I’d wanted this for so long, but not like this—not with him so far away.

Even when he took me, he was rough, not gentle at all.

Sharp pain. But I didn’t protest. I told myself it was proof he wanted me, that love could grow from ashes if I just held on tight enough.

I was scared and it hurt, but in my heart, I was secretly happy.

I clung to the hope that this was the beginning, that he’d finally see me, choose me. I told myself the pain was temporary, that happiness was just around the corner.

After years of loving him in silence, it felt like everything had finally come true that night.

I’d waited so long, dreamed so hard. In that moment, I believed we could build a life together, that my patience had finally been rewarded. I was wrong.

At the most intense moment, he clung to me, refusing to let go:

“Don’t push me away… Don’t reject me again, okay? Tell me you love me, that you’ll never leave me…”

His words were desperate, pleading. I answered without hesitation, pouring all my love into every syllable, hoping it would be enough to heal whatever was broken inside him.

Through my shyness and pain, I said I loved him over and over.

My voice trembled, but I didn’t stop. I whispered promises, swore I’d never leave, tried to fill the emptiness between us with words. I wanted so badly to believe it mattered.

For a moment, I felt giddy, ready to give him my whole heart.

For a moment, I really believed. I felt invincible, certain that love could conquer anything. I let myself dream, let myself hope, even as the truth lingered at the edges of my mind.

How could I have known that the Harrison of that night wasn’t just drunk and out of control, overcome with passion?

The realization came slowly, a creeping dread that settled in my bones. He wasn’t thinking of me—not really. I was a stand-in, a substitute for someone he couldn’t have.

He didn’t love me.

He never loved me.

The words echoed in my mind, relentless and cruel. I wanted to scream, to beg him to see me, but I knew it was useless. Love can’t be forced, no matter how hard you try.

I turned and walked out of the house, looking at the quiet Maple Heights blanketed in snow. No turning back.

The world was silent, the snow covering every trace of my life here. I stood on the porch, breathing in the cold air, letting it numb the ache inside me. I knew I couldn’t stay—not another minute, not another night.

I knew I couldn’t stay here another minute.

The finality of it hit me all at once. I walked down the driveway, boots crunching in the fresh snow, leaving footprints that would be gone by morning. I didn’t look back.