#marriage problem

[hotwife-heat]

[alchemysoulx]

BACK TO BLACK

Summary: You and Charlie have been married for a few years, but something feels off. You've been growing distant, caught in the struggle of trying to expand your family through adoption. But then, something happens. Something that changes your life for the worse.

Author's Note: I’m honored by this request and hope you enjoy what I’m preparing for this fanfic. If it goes well, I can certainly guarantee more chapters. The story will include betrayal, marital issues, and pregnancy. Engage if you like it! I would like to say that other requests are welcome and that I loved writing this chapter. If you like the chapter, interact.

TWO

THREE

Coming back was, and would always be, a mistake. The life you had built far from Charlie was the one that truly suited you. Quiet, anonymous, yours. Now, he seemed disturbingly satisfied to keep you trapped, as though your return was proof that he still owned some part of you. The interrogation room feels smaller than it should.

“So you lost your memory when you were injured while escaping the fire at your house?” one of the detectives assigned to your case asks, scribbling notes into a small notebook without looking up.

“Yes,” you answer calmly. “I crashed my car somewhere and lost consciousness. When I woke up, I was in another city, with no idea who I was.” As you speak, your hand drifts to your belly, slow and instinctive, feeling your baby shift beneath your palm.

“And you didn’t see any news about the fire on television or in the newspapers?” Detective Duval asks, her voice edged with thinly veiled skepticism.

Of course, Megan insisted on being part of the investigation. You meet her gaze without flinching. “I don’t remember much of anything from that time,” you say evenly. “I only know that I managed to settle in that town, find work, build a routine. And at some point, I discovered I was pregnant.”

The room falls quiet for a moment, the scratching of a pen the only sound. Megan’s eyes linger on you longer than necessary, sharp and assessing, as if she is searching for cracks in your story. But you remain still, composed, one hand resting protectively over your stomach.

Whatever they think they see, whatever they suspect, you know the truth. And you also know that returning to Charlie’s orbit has already cost you more than you can afford.

“My wife has already given every detail regarding what happened to her, so unless there is a formal accusation, she needs to go home and rest,” Charlie says firmly. He is seated close beside you, his shoulder nearly touching yours as he takes your hand in his, lacing his fingers through yours with the practiced intimacy of a loving husband. The gesture feels performative. Possessive.

“Forgive us, Dr. Mayhew, but it isn’t every day we see someone presumed dead return from the grave,” the detective accompanying Detective Duval replies, closing his notebook at last.

Megan’s eyes harden. She studies the two of you together, her jaw tightening as her gaze drifts to your intertwined hands, then to the gentle curve of your belly. The anger in her expression is unmistakable, barely contained beneath a veneer of professionalism.

“Nevertheless,” she says, forcing a thin smile, “we are satisfied with your statement, Mrs. Mayhew. And… pleased to know that your family will be expanding.”

The words sound rehearsed. Hollow. She looks away for a fraction of a second, as if the sight of you there, alive, pregnant, and still bound to Charlie, is physically painful to endure. Chairs scrape softly against the floor as the detectives stand. Papers are gathered, pens tucked away. The interview is clearly over.

“As of now, you’re free to go,” the male detective adds. “We’ll be in touch if anything further comes up.” Charlie squeezes your hand gently, a silent claim, and rises with you, already guiding you toward the door as though the matter is settled.

Megan continues to watch you as she pretends to escort you toward the exit of the police building, her steps measured, her expression rigid. You can feel her stare burning into you, sharp and unblinking, as though she’s trying to etch the image into her memory.

Still holding Charlie’s hand, you stop. You turn back toward him and, without hesitation, pull him into a kiss.

It begins gently, almost tender. A deliberate performance. But Charlie doesn’t hesitate for a second. He deepens the kiss, his hand settling at your waist, indulging in it as though he were alone with you. As though Megan’s presence were not only irrelevant but intentional. Something to be witnessed.

You tell yourself it doesn’t affect you. That it’s just another role you’re playing. Another lie layered over many others. But when you finally pull away, your pulse is racing.

The moment you step outside, you break the contact. Charlie opens the car door for you with the same controlled courtesy he’s used all day. You slide into the passenger seat, fastening your seatbelt as he takes his place behind the wheel.

“Don’t you regret bringing me back, dear?” you ask lightly, your eyes drifting to the glass doors of the building.

Through them, you see Megan standing rigid, her face twisted with fury as she types a message on her phone. Her movements are sharp, impatient. A second later, Charlie’s phone vibrates.

You don’t even glance at it. You already know who it’s from. Charlie exhales slowly, his jaw tightening just enough to betray his irritation or perhaps his satisfaction. He doesn’t answer the message. Instead, he starts the car. Whatever game he’s playing, you’ve just been made part of it again.

"No hay ni una gota de arrepentimiento en mi decisión de tener a mi esposa de nuevo a mi lado," he speaks spanish, a language he learned so he could take you to Mexico on your honeymoon. At the time, you thought it was the kindest declaration of love you had ever seen. Now, you don't even know if he ever loved you.

"Your wife died in that fire. She'll never come back," you say, watching him drive. "She believed that nonsense about you wanting her around, but I don't."

"Can't we just move on? I made a mistake; you made a mistake. Our son will be with us soon, and this can't haunt our relationship," he says, making it sound simple. In his eyes, it must be simple. But every time you look at him, touch him, or smell his imported cologne, you remember that Megan Duval spent a considerable amount of time with him. You remember Megan Duval, a woman who also felt his smell and touch. Something bitter rises within you.

"I want custody of our child and a divorce." You say this while looking directly at him, and he seems annoyed. "If I have custody and am no longer legally your wife, I might consider forgiving you for your mistakes," you say, trying to convince yourself that this is what you need to move forward.

"So my mistake will cost me losing you and our child, while yours will be forgotten?" He seems indignant while comparing your escape to his betrayal. He slams his hands against the steering wheel and honks at the car in front of him. His driving becomes more reckless, as if he wants to cause an accident.

“Charlie, what are you doing?” you ask, seeing him speed up beyond the speed limit. Your car overtakes the one ahead in a risky maneuver, nearly slamming into the other car’s rear end. You realize Charlie wants to cause an accident, so you need to think about what to do.

"I'm thinking of a way for us to be together forever," he says in a strange way, as if he were planning something, but you immediately touch his arm, as you have touched it many times to calm him down.

"You're right, you're right, you're right!" You scream as you watch him almost crash into another car. One of your hands was under your stomach, and the other was touching Charlie's arm. You might feel your baby kicking, as if it's trying to let you know it's still there. Safe inside you. Then you have an idea, so you take Charlie's hand and put it right on top of him. As soon as he feels the baby move, he slows down the car and pulls over as soon as possible.

"Don't make me end it all, Y/N," Charlie speaks while looking at you, as you try to hold back tears. His eyes seem to darken. "You don't want to know how far I'm capable of going if you try to leave me," he threatens, still touching your stomach with his hand.

"I won't leave you, mi amor," you speak trying to appeal to his sentimental side, he always loved it when you spoke spanish. "We can try being a couple, for our baby," you say, trying more to convince yourself than him.

"Until death do us part?" Charlie asks as if he wants to prove that there won't be a divorce. You feel like a rat, trapped in a mousetrap. To get the cheese, you need to let the mousetrap catch you.

“Until death do us part,” you say subtly as you try to understand what happened, like flashes in your mind. You close your eyes and remember the near collision between the car you are in and the one in front of you. Charlie is certainly not well. And now you understand that running away is not the solution. You type a message to your Aunt Lois, saying that you now understand the only way to end everything is by killing Charlie.

[pulp-art-from-an-english-writer]

Frank could never take a hint.

[alchemysoulx]

I don’t know if you taking requests but I have one if you are!

Charlie Mayhew x fem reader; they are married and the reader finds out everything and on top of that he is cheating on her with Megan (aka Lois was right) and leaves him without him knowing until he gets home and finds her and all of her stuff gone. She later finds out she’s pregnant (though she was told that she couldn’t before) while she’s staying with Lois and Charlie finds out the hard way when she’s in the hospital either something happened like she gets attacked or something but she doesn’t lose the baby OR she’s in their for a check up or had said baby.

I love the way you write him and absolutely love Haunted!! Also you can change it however you like!!

BACK TO BLACK

Summary: You and Charlie have been married for a few years, but something feels off. You've been growing distant, caught in the struggle of trying to expand your family through adoption. But then, something happens—something that changes your life for the worse.

Author's Note: I’m honored by this request and hope you enjoy what I’m preparing for this fanfic. If it goes well, I can certainly guarantee more chapters. The story will include betrayal, marital issues, and pregnancy. Engage if you like it! I would like to say that other requests are welcome and that I loved writing this chapter. If you like the chapter, interact. The chapter will contain inappropriate language and explicit adult content. Minors should not interact.

AO3 LINK TWO

ONE (+18)

At times, you have wondered how one knows when a marriage is over—if there is a sign that marks the end or if you simply wake up one day and decide to leave the man you love. For better or for worse seems far too abstract. Even now, as your husband holds you gently, pressing his body against yours. Once again, he has returned from work with a heavy expression, carrying the scent of a sweet perfume. If only he weren’t so handsome in that white coat, perhaps you would be able to think clearly enough to question him.

"My hermosa esposa, how did you spend your day?" Charlie asks, his hands settling on your waist as he embraces you from behind, pressing a kiss to your neck.

"Aunt Lois took me shopping. She advised me to start buying furniture for our child’s room," you say, turning to look at your husband, who does not seem pleased.

"I don’t like you getting ahead of yourself about having a child. Buying furniture and clothes is premature. That imaginary child does not exist yet," Charlie replies, his tone edged with bitterness, as if the idea of preparing a nursery had been weighing on him for some time.

"I should have known you would react this way," you say, pulling your husband's arms away from you. It is almost as if, little by little, he is becoming a stranger—a complete stranger.

"If this continues, it would be best if we abandoned this altogether," you say, your gaze serious as you look at him.

"You want to give up on the idea of adoption?" Charlie asks, and you watch him closely, trying to decipher his thoughts. Deep down, you are almost certain he is relieved at the mention of giving up.

"Perhaps I want to give up on my husband," you say, trying to keep your voice steady. Charlie’s expression remains unreadable for a moment, his sharp eyes studying you in silence. Then, ever so subtly, the corners of his lips twitch—not quite a smirk, not quite a frown.

"Don't speak like that, mi vida," he says, holding your face and pressing a kiss to the corner of your lips. "You are the reason I live." Charlie’s voice is low as he leans in, his fingers tracing gentle patterns against your skin.

"I love you, Charlie, but if you don’t want to build a future with me, then it’s best that I move on with my imaginary child, and you with your own life," you murmur. It hurts to say it. You don’t want to give up on your marriage—but with each passing day, it feels as though the man before you is slipping further away.

"Forgive me if I gave the impression that I don’t want a future for us. I just think what we have now is already good," he says, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then your forehead, and finally your lips. Your eyes close, surrendering to his touch. It’s always like this.

"What we have now is you being a successful doctor and me being a journalist who gave up the column I was responsible for because it required too much time away from home. I thought at least one of us should be present to care for our child—but we don’t have a child yet. And I remain here, waiting for some form of company," you confront him.

Some time ago, you tried to conceive, but due to a medical condition, none of your pregnancies survived. Eventually, the weight of it began carving an emotional void within you, a void that only seemed to push Charlie further away. He never put words to what he was feeling, and perhaps that was what hurt the most.

"I can keep you company now," Charlie says as he puts his hands on the strap of the dress you're wearing. He slowly pulls your dress down as you believe you should be discussing your relationship, but feeling his gentle touch on you, you feel like you can connect with him once more. "Eres deliciosa, I hope I'm being clear about this," Charlie says as he finally gets rid of your dress.

"As much as you're praising me, I don't know if fucking now will help us, mi esposo ," you speak with a shaky voice as you feel the touch of Charlie's hands on your exposed breasts. His cold fingers touched your nipples, causing you a pleasant sensation as he went from caressing your nipples to lightly squeezing them. You bite your lip holding back a moan that is almost escaping your mouth.

"Mi vida, being between your legs, feeling your juicy pussy around my cock, will always be the best option to help," he says as he pulls your neck. Immediately his lips capture yours, before you can even say anything. And quickly you feel something soften inside you, not just your legs but your heart. Charlie's arms hold your body, naked. By chance, you were without panties and bra, because the dress you were wearing was tight. He lifts you off the ground, guiding you to wrap your legs around his waist. His fingers pressing into your ass with a force that makes you gasp, while you cling to his neck, kissing every detail. You can't remember the last time he held you in his arms, that he wanted to be so close to you. "Doctor Charlie Mayhew, you are overdressed," you murmur in his ear as you nibble on his earlobe.

"Why don't you help me with this, Mrs. Mayhew?" he says as he places you on the edge of the bed. His body raised in front of you, his cock visibly erect covered by his pants so close to your face. He then takes your hand, putting two of your fingers in his mouth and sucking. The erotic look he gives you is enough to make you hot inside, you remove your fingers from his mouth and hurry to help him take off his clothes. You remove his lab coat, then unbuttoning his shirt and taking off his tie.

"Tell me how much you want to have me inside you, mi vida," he says as he gently pushes you down onto the bed. Then he gets on top of you, licking your lips and then kissing you deeply. His tongue entering your mouth and sucking yours as you lost yourselves in each other in the middle of the kiss. He uses his hands to separate your legs, running his fingers over your pussy, making you shiver slightly. Your pussy is wet, you can feel how easy it is for Charlie to run his fingers under it, as if he's just teasing you.

"Stop teasing me and fuck me," you mutter. He chuckles as he gently presses two fingers onto your clit, while kissing your neck. He sucks the skin on your neck as he enters your pussy with both fingers, inserting them into you slowly.You arch your body slowly, feeling pleasure build inside you as his fingers they come in and out of you faster and faster. You moan slowly as you watch him give a naughty smile watching you squirm. You feel your orgasm approaching, as you make increasingly loud noises at the stimulation Charlie is giving your pussy. You dig your nails into Charlie's back as you scratch him, feeling him inside you with so much passion. He then takes his fingers out of you, licking them and slapping your pussy, making you grunt.

"I'll give you what you wanted so much, hermosa," Charlie speaks as He removes his belt from his pants and lowers his pants and underwear with admirable speed. You place your hand under his cock, stroking his cock with your hands and gently squeezing the tip of it. He mutters "mierda" while feeling your hand stimulate his cock, feeling his pre-cum lubricate your hand making the movements more slippery. He squeezes your breasts as he massages them, causing you to let out a soft moan. Quickly, he holds your hand, kissing the hand that was previously on his dick and without delay, puts his cock in your pussy. His first movement is slow, as you get used to his cock inside you, but quickly amidst your attempts to assist with his movements, he begins to thrust his cock in you more quickly. You can't contain your moans as you feel him nibble on your neck and hold your legs upwards, to bring your body even closer to his. You drag your fingers down his back as you force him deeper into you, grinding slightly. You pull on Charlie's hair as you feel your orgasm coming, feeling the sweat from your bodies mix as your husband continues to explore your body with his hands. You let out a loud grunt as your husband thrusts deeper into you, as your cum melts his cock.

As you cum, he squeezes your ass tightly, making you even more horny for him. His balls slapping against your pussy as he still thrusts his cock into you, while your pussy is sensitive from cumming. You hold on tight against him as you try to keep your legs steady on his waist even though you feel a slight weakness in your body as you recover from the orgasm. Charlie says your name as he cums inside you, and you feel his cum spurt inside you hard, making you let out a loud involuntary moan. Charlie licks your neck moving up to your face and kissing your lips.

"I hope you're ready for round two, mi vida," he says as he runs his fingers down to your pussy, feeling his cum dripping down your pussy and pressing his hand against your sensitive pussy, giving it a light slap under it. You sigh as you prepare for another round of sex with your hot husband.

"I'm always ready for more of you," you whisper against your husband's lips as you feel him take control of your body. He has always had this power over you—the power to ignite you, to give you exactly what you need to feel whole. Sexually, the two of you share an otherworldly connection.

But then the night fades into dawn, and once again, your husband slips out of bed. It isn’t a medical emergency—his pager never went off—but you definitely heard him receive a message.

After several long minutes of pretending to sleep, you wait for him to leave before following him. You are certain now—he is hiding something. It has been weeks since Aunt Lois first warned you that something about Charlie felt off, and now you need to know what is so important that he had to leave your bed in such a hurry.

You remember all the advice Aunt Lois gave you for moments like this. You’re using your own car, keeping a safe distance, wearing a disguise. And yet, Charlie doesn’t seem the least bit suspicious.

Your heart nearly leaps out of your chest when you see where he finally parks. Megan Duval’s house. More specifically, Detective Megan Duval. She and Aunt Lois are partners, though their relationship has been strained ever since Lois suspected Megan was angling for a promotion. Thinking back, Megan used to visit Aunt Lois’s house often. And Charlie never minded going there either. Coincidence or not, Charlie suddenly became too busy to attend Aunt Lois’s dinners—just as Megan stopped going as well.

Then you see him. Charlie steps out of his car, smoothing his tousled hair—hair you ran your fingers through just hours ago. He straightens his shirt, a fleeting effort to compose himself before heading toward her door.

Your body tenses as you watch him smile, a smile you once thought was meant only for you. He nearly rushes to her, and she opens the door as if she had been waiting, as if this were routine. Without hesitation, she throws herself into his arms, and he kisses her. Passionately. His hands find her waist, pulling her close with a familiarity that makes your stomach turn. Then, slowly, one of them slides down to caress her backside.

Your heart shatters. Your blood boils. Tears blur your vision as you watch them disappear inside, and the weight of reality crashes down on you. The man you built your life around, the man you sacrificed for, the man you loved—he is gone. Or maybe he was never truly yours.

Every instinct screams at you to get out of the car, to tear her house apart, to make him regret this betrayal. Years of devotion, of trying to give him a child, of bending yourself to fit the shape of his life—wasted. You want to scream. You want to hurt him like he’s hurt you. But more than anything, you want to be free. And that will only be possible if he never sees it coming.

Your hands grip the wheel tighter as you drive home, heart pounding in your chest. The moment you step inside, you move with purpose. A suitcase—essentials only. Clothes, documents, enough to disappear for a while. But as you pack, rage takes over.

You shatter every framed photo of the two of you, as if breaking the glass could erase the years you wasted on him. You tear apart his favorite clothes, rip them to shreds. His expensive colognes? Smashed, their luxurious scent mixing with the bitter stench of betrayal. Then, an idea forms. If Charlie takes his time realizing you’re gone, it will be even easier to slip away. With renewed determination, you grab every bottle of alcohol he cherishes and pour them over the furniture, the floors, every surface in sight. By the time your bag is packed into the car, the house is drenched in liquor.

Standing at the door, you flick open a lighter—one you haven’t used in years. You quit smoking when you started trying for a child, when you still believed in the future you were building together. That future is gone now. So you let the past burn. The flames catch instantly, licking hungrily at the alcohol-soaked wood. You took the batteries out of the smoke detectors. There are no neighbors nearby. By the time Charlie realizes what’s happened, he’ll have nothing left. You slide into the driver’s seat, heart racing, and dial Aunt Lois.It’s time to tell her everything. As you drive away, the fire glows in your rearview mirror. But you don’t look back.

Months later, you struggle to carry a package into your new home. Aunt Lois made your escape possible, securing a false identity and forged documents so you could start over. You relocated to the family's countryside house in another state, renting it under your new name for a modest sum—just enough to avoid suspicion.

They never found your body in the fire, so you were declared missing. You abandoned your car in a river before boarding a train that took you close to your new home. Now, you drive a rented car, living in this secluded house, far enough from prying eyes. The people in town seem to like you—you’re not sure if it’s because of your demeanor or because you're a pregnant woman living alone.

Yes, Charlie managed to get you pregnant—perhaps in one of the few times he hadn’t even tried. Now, you spend your days working as a waitress in a local restaurant and ghostwriting for a newspaper. You need every bit of income to prepare for the arrival of your child.

But something is wrong. There’s someone inside your house. You spot the intruder from a distance, rummaging through your belongings. Your pulse quickens as you slip back to your car, your fingers closing around the gun in the glove compartment. You don’t give him a chance—once you have a clear shot, you fire.

He collapses, blood pooling beneath him. You approach, cautious but steady. He’s still breathing, but barely. Then, as you turn his body over, your world tilts. "Y/N... is it really you?" Charlie rasps, his voice weak, his hand grasping at your leg as if trying to convince himself you’re real.

You stare down at him, heart pounding. "Charlie," you whisper. Your hand instinctively moves to your belly, feeling your baby stir inside you. What a cruel twist of fate.

[alchemysoulx]

BACK TO BLACK

Summary: You and Charlie have been married for a few years, but something feels off. You've been growing distant, caught in the struggle of trying to expand your family through adoption. But then, something happens—something that changes your life for the worse.

Author's Note: I’m honored by this request and hope you enjoy what I’m preparing for this fanfic. If it goes well, I can certainly guarantee more chapters. The story will include betrayal, marital issues, and pregnancy. Engage if you like it! I would like to say that other requests are welcome and that I loved writing this chapter. If you like the chapter, interact.

BACK TO BLACK THREE

TWO

Unfortunately, Charlie didn’t die. It would’ve been easier if he had. Or if you hated him enough to let him bleed out on the floor. But you didn’t.

So you called an ambulance. You stayed with him. You gave your statement to the police. But you didn’t care to remain by his side at the hospital. Once the officers confirmed he had broken into your home, verified your gun license, and ensured Charlie wasn’t in critical condition, they let you go. You told them you wouldn’t press charges. Said he seemed disoriented, confused, but not violent.

Now you're back at the house, swallowed by silence, standing in the wreckage of yet another storm Charlie brought into your life. Over twelve hours of chaos. Of memories you tried to bury. You need to run. Again. You can’t risk him finding you. Can’t risk him poisoning this new life you’ve fought so hard to build—with more lies, more apologies, more ruin.

A knock—followed by a second, louder one—rings through the house, sharp and impatient. You were just about to start packing your bags, but the insistence at the door forces you to abandon your task.

"I'm coming!" you call out, walking briskly toward the entrance. But when you swing the door open, your breath catches in your throat. Charlie.

He stands there, clearly still recovering from the gunshot wound you gave him. He looks pale, strained—his posture weak, his shoulder stiff beneath the bandage barely visible beneath his coat. You instinctively take a step back, the sight of him striking you like a blow.

"You shouldn’t be here," you murmur, one hand instinctively flying to your belly as a sharp twinge runs through it, tightening your nerves.

"I’m sorry for showing up like this. I just... I needed to see you," he says, his voice cracked, almost hollow. Something is off. You don’t know if it’s the pain laced in his voice or the way his eyes look—distant, dull, like a shadow of the man you once knew. Like whatever part of him you loved had been hollowed out.

"Needed to see me?" you repeat coldly, stepping fully in front of the doorway, your body blocking the entrance with deliberate firmness. You’re not letting him in. Not again. Not now.

“The officers told me you didn’t want to press charges,” he begins, his voice low and strained. He looks utterly drained, like just standing there is costing him everything he has. It almost makes you feel guilty for not inviting him in. Almost.

“I honestly…” He exhales slowly, like the weight of it all is too much. “I don’t know how to apologize for breaking into your home. Especially now, seeing that you’re pregnant.” His eyes flicker to your belly, a flicker of regret passing over his face. “The doctors think the fall—or something—messed with my memory. They say it’s temporary, but… if it weren’t for my driver’s license, I probably wouldn’t even know my name right now.”

You go still. That explains everything. You’re not standing in front of your husband—at least, not the version of him that lied, betrayed, and destroyed you. This is someone else. Someone who doesn’t know you. Someone who doesn’t even know himself.

“I’m sorry you were hurt,” you murmur, voice gentler now despite the storm still swirling in your chest. “Even if you did invade my home… I could’ve handled it differently.”

Your baby kicks hard—again and again—sensing your unease, and you press a hand to your belly, trying to soothe the life growing inside you. Then, against all the instincts screaming for you to shut the door and walk away, you take a cautious step back. Just one.

“Maybe you should come in. You don’t look well,” you say quietly, your expression careful, unreadable. You try not to reveal how much you know him, or how much you once loved him. Because the truth is, no matter how much of you wants to hate him… there’s still a part of you that remembers.

You remember how careful he was at the beginning—how it felt to be beside him, how safe and seen he once made you feel. But the moment he steps into your home, you force yourself to silence any inappropriate thought, any lingering softness that dares to surface.

After you shut the door behind him, you both move quietly toward the living room. The floor, once stained with his blood, shows no trace of it now—you made sure of that before packing. His eyes scan the room, taking in the boxes, the scattered belongings waiting to be sealed away.

He lowers himself slowly onto the couch, the motion labored, and then looks at you with something like recognition—or maybe confusion.

“Are you leaving?” he asks softly, the question hanging in the air between you like smoke.

“Maybe I am,” you murmur as you settle onto the sofa, keeping your tone guarded, “but I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“Not trying to be rude,” you add, your voice quieter now, more composed.

He glances around at the packed boxes again, then meets your gaze. “I was just curious because of your things… but I must say, leaving like this doesn’t suit you, Y/N. You never struck me as a coward.”

And that’s it. Something clicks in your mind—sharp, immediate, undeniable. He’s pretending. That bastard.

“You haven’t changed, Charlie Mayhew,” you say, eyes narrowing slightly as you stare at him. The softness vanishes from your face, replaced with cold clarity. “Still playing the same old games.”

"The pot calling the kettle black," Charlie scoffs, his voice low and mocking. "You played pretend just as much as I did—made me think you were dead while you hid away in this little town like a scared little mouse, carrying our child."

That familiar, devilish glint returns to his eyes—the one you thought you had escaped. He chuckles as he remains seated on your sofa, lazily surveying the room like he already owned it.

“There is no our child,” you say coldly, pressing a protective hand against your belly, feeling your baby kick frantically beneath your palm. The tension is thick, and your child seems to sense every bit of it.

“There is my child. This is my house. My town. And there is no room for you in my life anymore,” you finish, your voice firm, as though stating a simple, irrefutable fact.

He tilts his head slightly, the mocking smile never leaving his lips. "Sounds lovely in theory," he murmurs, inching closer, "but in practice... you're alone, pretending to be someone you're not."

Before you can move, he places a hand carefully over your stomach. Strangely, your baby's wild kicking calms under his touch. You squeeze your eyes shut, fighting the wave of emotions that threatens to drown you. Don’t fall for it, you chant silently to yourself. Don’t let him back in. Not again.

"What do you want, Charlie?" you ask, firmly removing his hand from your belly. It’s obvious he wants something—or is planning something—given the unnatural calm in his voice.

"I want my family back," he says, his eyes dropping to your stomach with a softness that almost looks genuine. "Despite everything, I still love you. We both wanted this baby so badly."

You nearly laugh at the absurdity of it all. "Why don't you ask Detective Duval to give you a family?" you reply sharply. "Since you were so eager to screw her while you were still married to me." The corners of your mouth twitch with bitter amusement. The audacity of Charlie, showing up here after everything he had done.

"It's strange, really," you continue, your voice cold and steady. "You coming after me now. My fake death should have freed you from the burdens of being a husband. You could have built a lovely life with your mistress."

"I admit it was a mistake to get involved with Megan," Charlie says, his voice heavy with false remorse, as if he were a man hopelessly in love. You let out a mocking laugh. He must really think you’re a fool.

"Of course not," you snap. "I'm sure you spent your time complaining about me while you were rutting with her like a pair of animals in heat."

You narrow your eyes at him, the fury burning just beneath your skin, and rise to your feet, pacing the living room in growing frustration while Charlie watches you carefully.

"You’re going to end up stressing our baby, Y/N," he murmurs, reaching out to take your hand and stroking it gently.

It’s a gesture he once used to calm you during the endless rounds of fertility treatments at the hospital—when you were still foolish enough to believe in the future you were trying to build together.

So many attempts, so many dreams of a family... and now that you finally carry the child you once prayed for, Charlie has become the very source of your deepest misery.

"If you truly care about the baby," you say in a low, almost pleading tone, your voice trembling as the tears build in your eyes, "then leave. Pretend you never found me. Live your life and let me live mine." You feel sick at the contact of his hand, as if his very touch stains you.

"I loved you more than I ever loved anyone in my entire life. I just didn’t know how to show it," Charlie says, as if there could ever be any justification for what he had done to you.

"When we started chasing after this dream of a child, of a family... I didn’t know how to tell you, but I already felt complete with you. It was you and me against the world. And then it seemed like you needed this third person to be able to love me. I started to believe I wasn't enough for you." The bastard.

Finally, you allow yourself to cry—but the tears are mixed with a bitter, almost hysterical laugh, as though you had reached your breaking point.

"And you had the audacity to call me a coward," you say through clenched teeth.

"Your act of seeking out another woman, instead of being honest with me, was pure cruelty—an act of true cowardice. And do you know what makes it even worse?" You step closer to him, standing face to face now as he rises from the sofa.

"It’s the fact that you didn’t tell me the truth because you were selfish. Deep down, you knew I might leave you if I found out. And yet, you chose to deceive me. To make a fool out of me."

"And there is nothing I regret more than that," he says, but honestly, it is not enough to satisfy you. No amount of regret could ever cover the wounds he had inflicted upon you.

"But I am not leaving here without you. So either you return to the life we once had, or I move into your guest room," he declares with precision, as if there were no other option.

"As you wish, husband," you reply, locking your gaze with his. "I shall return to being Y/N Mayhew, only to formally file for divorce—and then you shall be forever immortalized as a mistake of my past," you say, making it abundantly clear that there would be no reconciliation.

"You are forgetting, dear wife, that we shall still have a child together. We will forever be bound by him," he says, stepping closer to you. There is something almost perverse in the way he speaks.

"Then perhaps I shall need to become a widow, not a divorcée," you reply in a cold tone, offering him a slight smile—making it perfectly clear that you are serious. Inside, you think that his death might be the only way for you to finally overcome whatever love still lingers within you.

Without another word, you turn subtly and begin making your way toward the staircase leading to the second floor. "Sleep on the couch. Tomorrow, we shall return to our former lives—until death do us part," you warn him, before disappearing into your bedroom.

[sunburstpsy]

What is the Success Rate of Marriage Counseling?

When relationships hit rough patches, many couples wonder if marriage counseling can truly help. Will therapy improve communication, rekindle connection, and help partners overcome long-standing conflicts? And perhaps the biggest question: “What is the success rate of marriage counseling?”. While no two relationships are the same, both scientific research and real-life client experiences suggest that marriage counseling has a solid track record of success.

https://www.folkd.com/entry/113769-what-is-the-success-rate-of-marriage-counseling/