Marcela
They say the people you love most are the ones who can break you the hardest. I never wanted to believe that. I trusted Kester. I married him because I thought he was different—honest, loyal, kind.
But lately, doubt has become my shadow. His friends cheat on their wives so easily, tossing away vows as though they mean nothing. What if temptation knocks on our door? What if I wake up one morning, and the man I love is already gone in spirit?
Kester
I'm not the kind of man who cheats. Never have been, never will be—or so I tell myself. But marriage feels lonely when your wife doesn't see you anymore. When her eyes are full of suspicion instead of love, when her lips deny me even a kiss, when her body turns to ice beside me in bed.
And then Linda walks in. Her laughter, her warmth, her smile… my wife's best friend, the one woman I should never think about. Yet I do.
Linda
It's wrong. God, I know it's wrong. He's married—to my best friend, of all people. But have you ever wanted someone so much it hurts to breathe when they're near? Kester is everything I told myself I could never have: strong, loyal, protective, devastatingly handsome. Marcela doesn't treat him right. And the more I watch her doubt him, the more I want to step in and show him what it feels like to be truly loved.
Unknown Voice
They think love is their choice to make. But love, betrayal, loyalty—they're all threads of the same web. And by the time they realize who's pulling the strings, it will already be too late.
Chapter One – The Cracks Appear
Marcela's POV
The perfume clung to his shirt like a ghost. Sweet, musky, too bold to be mine. I stared at it for a long moment, holding the fabric close to my nose, as though the answer might reveal itself if I inhaled deep enough.
Kester had left the shirt on the chair after coming back late from a night out with his friends. Those friends. The same men who bragged about their affairs in hushed whispers over beers. I hated them—not just for their unfaithfulness, but because I knew influence was contagious.
"What are you doing?"
I spun around, clutching the shirt. Kester stood at the doorway of our bedroom, fresh from the shower, a towel wrapped low around his hips. Drops of water clung to his chest, tracing the lines of muscle I once traced with eager fingers.
"Whose perfume is this?" I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.
His brows furrowed. "Perfume?" He stepped closer, taking the shirt from me. "Marcela, that's from the waitress. She spilled her drink on me, remember? I told you last night."
My throat tightened. He had mentioned something, hadn't he? But the scent felt like evidence. Tangible. Real.
"I just…" I swallowed hard. "I just don't want to be the fool, Kester. All your friends—"
"I am not my friends." His voice cracked like thunder, startling me. Then he sighed, softer. "Marcela, do you even see me anymore? Do you see what this is doing to us?"
But I couldn't answer. Because all I could see was the possibility—the terrifying what if—that maybe one day, I'd wake up, and he wouldn't be mine.
Kester's POV
Her eyes cut deeper than knives. Suspicion—that was all I saw anymore. I wasn't guilty of anything, but God help me, the way she looked at me made me want to be.
I turned away, dropping the shirt. What was the point? I could work all day, provide everything she wanted, love her with every breath—and it would never be enough.
"Breakfast is downstairs," she muttered, already dismissing me, retreating to the vanity mirror where she painted her lips like armor.
I wanted to grab her, kiss her until she remembered I was her husband, not her enemy. But when I touched her shoulder, she flinched, just slightly. That was worse than a slap.
So I walked out.
Downstairs, I found Linda already in the kitchen, her dark hair tied back, humming as she poured coffee into mugs. She was staying with us for a few days after a fight with her ex.
"Morning, Kester," she said, her voice warm like sunlight. "Rough night?"
I chuckled bitterly. "Something like that."
Her eyes searched mine—gentle, concerned. The kind of look Marcela hadn't given me in months. And in that fleeting second, I hated myself for noticing.
Linda's POV
I shouldn't look at him like that. I know it. Every time I catch myself lingering on the sharp line of his jaw, the way his shoulders fill his shirt, the softness that flickers in his eyes when he lets his guard down—I tell myself Stop. He belongs to her.
But then Marcela walks into the room, lips tight, eyes sharp, and all I see is how badly she treats him.
"Thanks for making coffee, Linda," she says flatly, as though kindness is an inconvenience.
"You're welcome." I force a smile, but my heart beats too fast.
Because when Kester's hand brushes mine as I pass him his mug, heat jolts through me like fire. And for just one reckless second, his eyes linger on mine too long.
Marcela's POV
I saw it. The way his gaze lingered on her hand. On her smile.
Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was everything.
But as I stood there, staring at the two of them laughing softly over coffee, a cold truth crawled into my chest:
If I didn't fight for my marriage, I was going to lose it.
And maybe… maybe I already was.