The lie that brought them to that very day. Then the truth. Two years later but the truth. Sabine fought him. Cried. Packed bags with shaky hands. He’d never forget the look in her eyes as she walked out holding their son in her arms.
That was what haunted him now. The truthaftera lie didn’t save him. It damned him.
Sabine had always been the stronger one. The one who showed up even when it was unfair. The one who carried their grief like she carried their son—tight to the chest, never letting it fall. She gave him a chance to be better and he used it too late.
He stared down at an old photo tucked under his monitor. Ade’s first birthday. Cake on his cheeks, curls wild. Sabine next to him, radiant even in exhaustion from planning his party mostly alone because of his busy schedule. She had been smiling at Adair in that shot. Back when she still looked at him like he was hers. Now? She looked through him. Like he was someone she’d once known and he couldn’t blame her because no matter how many good things he did now—no matter how many times he said sorry, or showed up on time, or called just to say good morning—it didn’t erase the moment he wasn’t there.
Didn’t erase the version of him that failed her.
He told her the truth and still lost her. That was the part they never tell you?—
Sometimes the truth comes too late and sometimes, there’s no coming back.
A knock sounded—then followed by the creak of the door opening before he could say a word.
“Adair?”
Corrine.
Of course. She had the absolute worse timing. She stepped inside, her heels soft on the carpet, body angled like she’d rehearsed this moment. He didn’t even bother looking up.
“Didn’t say come in,” he muttered, eyes still on the photo of his son. His voice lacked its usual edge, but the bite was there. Enough to make her pause but not enough to make her leave.
Corrine shut the door behind her. “I figured you wouldn’t mind. You’ve been ghosting the team all day.”
“I’m working.”
“You’re brooding.”
Now he did look up. Slowly. Tiredly. “Do you need something?”
She tilted her head, stepping closer. A little too close. “You weren’t at the meeting. Jenkins asked if everything was okay, and I covered for you. Again.”
Adair exhaled, long and slow, pushing the photo frame face down on his desk. “I didn’t ask you to do that.”
“I know. I just thought maybe you’d appreciate a little backup. Considering everything.” She smiled. That sly, expectant kind of smile—the one that used to work on weaker versions of him but Adair wasn’t that man anymore. Not today. Maybe not ever again.
“Corrine,” he said flatly. “What do you want?”
Her expression shifted just a hair. Offense or disappointment, he couldn’t tell. Maybe both. Honestly, he didn’t care. “I wanted to see how you were doing.”
He leaned back, arms crossed. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“And you don’t know what the fuck fine looks like on me,” he spat and her jaw tensed. It hung in the air between them,everything unspoken, uninvited. She moved toward the window, glancing out like she owned the view.
“You’ve been different. I thought maybe...after the divorce was final, we’d talk…about us.”
He blinked once. “There is no us.”
Corrine turned then, arms folding. “You’re really gonna pretend like we didn’t mean anything?”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing.”
Her mouth opened—shut—then she scoffed, shaking her head like she couldn’t believe him. “Wow. You’re unbelievable, you know that?”
“No, I’m real clear now. Clearer than I’ve ever been.” His voice was flat. “We had sex. A couple times. When I was barely sober enough to spell my own name. Never in a bed. Never face to face. You want me to pretty that up for you? Say it was special? That it mattered?”