The Other Woman - Part II
Summary: She's having an affair with Jensen Ackles—a married man whose touch sets her world on fire and whose absence leaves her hollow. What started as something casual, something that wasn't supposed to mean anything, has become the most real thing in her life. Every stolen moment, every secret meeting, every lie she tells to be with him only makes the truth more undeniable: she's drowning in him, and she doesn't want to be saved. When you're caught between what's right and what feels inevitable, how do you choose? And what happens when you finally stop choosing at all?
This is a story about forbidden passion and impossible truths—about the difference between what we should want and what we actually need. Featuring stolen moments, devastating honesty, and a confession that shatters all their carefully constructed lies, this is a romance about finally choosing the person you can't live without, even when that choice breaks everything else apart.
Pairing: Jensen Ackles x female!reader
Word count: 52.838
Author's note: Welcome back. If Part 1 was the quiet “something is off” feeling, Part 2 is where that feeling starts pacing the room and drinking all the coffee. Things get a little messier here—emotions get louder, lines blur, and denial becomes… ambitious. I promise I’m not judging anyone in this story (or you, for reading it), but I am letting the characters make choices that feel very human and very complicated. Thank you for coming back for more. Buckle in gently. 🤍
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That's how long it's been since I walked out of the Driskill and didn't look back.
Ninety-two days, to be exact. Not that I'm counting.
Okay, I was counting. For the first month, at least. Every morning I woke up and thought, Day twelve. Day twenty-three. Day thirty-seven. Like I was marking time in some kind of emotional prison sentence, waiting for the day I'd finally feel free.
The texts started two days after I left.
Please. Can we just talk?
I'm sorry. I should have been honest with you from the start.
You deserve better than what I gave you.
Then came the flowers. Peonies, because he remembered they were my favorite. White ones, soft pink ones, arrangements so beautiful they made my chest ache. Joan wanted to throw them out. Chris suggested we light them on fire in some kind of symbolic cleansing ritual. Tyler just looked at me with those sad, knowing eyes and asked if I was okay.
But I didn't answer the texts. I didn't call. I donated the flowers to a nursing home and blocked his number on a Tuesday afternoon while sitting in my car outside Whole Foods, crying so hard I couldn't see straight.
And then, slowly, the days got easier.
I stopped checking my phone every five minutes. Stopped looking for his truck in parking lots. Stopped holding my breath every time I walked into a coffee shop, terrified and hopeful I'd see him there.
I started sleeping through the night again. Started laughing at Joan's terrible jokes. Started feeling like maybe, possibly, I could be okay without him.
It wasn't planned. Tyler brought him to happy hour three weeks ago—his boss, the guy he'd been talking about for months. Jason Teague, founder and CEO of some tech startup that was doing well enough that Tyler could finally afford to stop eating ramen for dinner every night.
I wasn't looking for anything. Wasn't even thinking about dating. But Jason was… easy. Uncomplicated. He asked me questions and actually listened to the answers. He laughed at my jokes. He didn't make promises he couldn't keep or look at me like I was something he wanted but couldn't have.
When he asked me to dinner the next week, I said yes.
When he kissed me goodnight after our second date, I kissed him back.
And when he asked me to be his plus-one to some charity gala his company was sponsoring, I didn't hesitate.
"Yes," I said. "I'd love to."
I didn't think about Jensen. Didn't let myself wonder if he'd approve of Jason, if he'd be jealous, if he'd care at all.
"Okay, but you can't wear black to this thing," Joan says, flipping through the rack at the boutique with the kind of focused intensity she usually reserves for trial prep. "Everyone wears black to galas. You need to stand out."
"I don't want to stand out," I say, eyeing a simple navy dress that looks safe and forgettable. "I just want to look nice."
"Nice is boring." Chris appears beside me with a dress that's approximately seventy percent sequins. "This. This is a statement."
Tyler laughs from where he's sprawled in one of the boutique's velvet chairs, scrolling through his phone. "Jason's going to lose his mind when he sees you, no matter what you wear. The man is gone for you."
Something twists in my chest. Guilt, maybe. Or just the uncomfortable awareness that I don't feel the same way.
I like Jason. I do. He's smart and successful and kind, and he treats me like I matter. Like I'm not just some secret he keeps in the margins of his life.
But when he kisses me, I don't feel that electric pull, that desperate need that made me stupid and reckless and willing to accept crumbs.
Maybe that's a good thing.
Maybe safe is exactly what I need.
"Try this one," Joan says, shoving a dress into my arms. It's red—deep, rich, the color of wine or roses or blood. "Trust me."
I disappear into the dressing room and shimmy into the gown. The fabric is cool and smooth against my skin, the fit so perfect it's almost unsettling. When I step out and look in the mirror, I barely recognize myself.
The dress is floor-length, off-the-shoulder, the neckline sitting straight across my chest in a way that feels classic and elegant. It's form-fitting through the torso and hips, emphasizing every curve, and there's a high slit up one side that reveals my leg when I move.
I look… powerful. Dangerous, even.
Like someone who has her shit together.
"Oh my God," Joan breathes.
Chris lets out a low whistle. "Okay, yeah. That's the one."
Tyler looks up from his phone and grins. "Jason's going to have a heart attack."
I turn, watching the way the fabric moves, the way the slit reveals just enough skin to be interesting without feeling like too much. "You think?"
"I know!," Joan says. She's already pulling jewelry from the boutique's accessory case—layered diamond necklaces that catch the light, delicate and sparkling. "With these. And those silver heels. Hair down, red lip. You're going to be a fucking knockout."
I stare at my reflection, at this version of myself that looks confident and untouchable.
I wonder if Jensen would think I'm beautiful.
Then I shove the thought away, bury it deep where it can't hurt me.
The gala is exactly as elegant as I expected.
The venue is a massive tent, the ceiling draped in soft, flowing fabric that creates an intimate, cocoon-like effect despite the size of the space. Warm golden lights and small hanging glass globes are strung overhead, casting everything in a gentle, romantic glow.
Below, round tables are dressed in dark linens, each one carefully set with glowing candles, crystal glassware, and polished silverware that catches the light. The color palette is rich—golds and ambers, deep browns and blacks, soft neutrals that make the whole space feel warm and inviting.
It's beautiful. The kind of place where conversations are hushed and laughter is low and warm, where the night stretches on over wine and candlelight.
Jason's hand is warm on the small of my back as we navigate through the crowd. He looks incredible in his tailored black tuxedo, the satin peak lapels sharp and formal, his white dress shirt crisp beneath a perfectly tied black bow tie. The fit is immaculate—structured but not stiff—and he wears it with the kind of quiet confidence that comes from knowing exactly who you are.
"You look stunning," he murmurs, leaning close so I can hear him over the soft music. "I'm the luckiest guy here."
I smile, but it feels tight. Performative.
"Thank you. You clean up pretty well yourself."
He grins, then his gaze shifts across the room. "Oh, hey—I see a friend of mine. Come on, I'll introduce you."
I don't know why. There's no reason to feel anxious. But something in the air shifts, and I feel it like a premonition, like my body knows before my brain catches up.
Jason guides me through the crowd, his hand never leaving my back, and then we're standing in front of them.
Jensen looks exactly the same—sharp and devastating in a black tuxedo with satin lapels, a crisp white shirt, black bow tie. His hair is styled perfectly, his jaw clean-shaven, and when his eyes meet mine, there's a flicker of something—shock, maybe, or pain—before his expression smooths into polite neutrality.
Danneel is beside him in a floor-length champagne gown, delicate lace embroidery layered over sheer fabric, creating an intricate, romantic pattern from bodice to hem. She's stunning. Soft and feminine and glowing in a way that makes my chest tighten with something ugly and sharp.
"Jensen!" Jason says, clapping him on the shoulder. "Man, it's been too long. How've you been?"
Jensen's smile is easy, practiced. "Good, good. Busy, you know how it is."
"I do." Jason turns to me, his hand still warm on my back. "This is my girlfriend. Sweetheart, this is Jensen Ackles and his wife, Danneel. Jensen and I go way back—we met at a charity poker tournament a few years ago."
The word hangs in the air between us, sharp and cutting.
Jensen extends his hand, his expression perfectly pleasant. "Nice to meet you."
The words hit like a slap.
Like he doesn't know the taste of my skin. Like he hasn't memorized every sound I make when I come. Like I'm a stranger.
I force my face into something resembling a smile and take his hand. His grip is firm, impersonal, and I want to scream.
"Nice to meet you too," I say, my voice steady even though I'm breaking apart inside.
Danneel steps forward, her smile warm and genuine. "It's so nice to meet you! I love your dress—that color is absolutely stunning on you."
Her voice is kind. Sweet. There's no artifice in it, no hidden agenda. She's just… nice.
I hate myself so much I can barely breathe.
This is the woman whose husband I slept with. The woman I told myself must be cold or distant or somehow deserving of being betrayed. But she's not. She's warm and lovely and standing right in front of me, complimenting my dress, and I want to disappear.
"Thank you," I manage. "Your gown is beautiful. The lace is gorgeous."
"Oh, thank you! I wasn't sure about it, but Jensen said it was perfect." She glances at him with so much affection it makes my stomach turn. "He has surprisingly good taste for a guy."
Jensen laughs, the sound easy and familiar, and I feel like I'm watching a play. Like none of this is real.
"We should grab drinks sometime," Danneel continues, turning back to me. "It's always nice to meet new people in the charity circuit. Everyone's so lovely."
"That would be great," I lie.
Jason checks his watch. "We should probably get to our table before things start. But let's catch up later, yeah?"
"Absolutely," Jensen says, his eyes never quite meeting mine.
We say our goodbyes—polite, surface-level, meaningless—and Jason guides me away.
I can feel Jensen's gaze on my back.
I make it through the first course.
Salad, something with goat cheese and candied pecans that I push around my plate without tasting. Jason is talking to the couple beside us, something about venture capital and market trends, and I nod along like I'm listening.
I'm thinking about the way Jensen looked at me. The way he pretended not to know me. The way Danneel smiled, so open and trusting, and how I'm the worst kind of person for what I did.
I can still feel his eyes on me.
Every time I glance up, I catch him watching. His gaze is heavy, intense, and I don't know what it means. Anger? Regret? Longing?
By the time they clear the salad plates, I'm barely holding it together. My chest feels tight, my skin too hot, and I need air. I need space. I need to not be in this room with Jensen's eyes on me and Danneel's kindness echoing in my head.
"I'm going to run to the restroom," I murmur to Jason.
He glances over, concerned. "You okay?"
"Yeah, just need to freshen up."
He kisses my temple. "Take your time."
I weave through the tables, my heels clicking against the floor, and I'm almost to the hallway when I feel it.
Jensen's voice is low, rough, and when I turn, he's standing too close. His jaw is tight, his eyes dark, and there's something raw in his expression that makes my heart stutter.
"There's nothing to talk about," I say, my voice sharper than I intend.
"Bullshit." He glances around, then lowers his voice. "You're here with Jason? Seriously?"
"I don't see how that's any of your business."
"It's my business when you're dating someone I know. When you're—" He breaks off, running a hand through his hair. "How long?"
"How long have you been seeing him?"
I cross my arms, defensive. "Two weeks. Not that it matters."
"Two weeks." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Jesus Christ. You moved on fast."
The accusation in his tone makes something snap inside me.
"I moved on fast?" I hiss, stepping closer. "You're married, Jensen. You went home to your wife every single night while I waited for scraps. Don't you dare act like I'm the one who did something wrong."
"I'm not—" He stops, his jaw working. "I just… I didn't think you'd…"
"What? Find someone who actually wants to be with me? Someone who doesn't treat me like a secret?"
His eyes flash. "That's not fair."
"None of this is fair." My voice cracks, and I hate it. Hate that he can still do this to me. "You don't get to be hurt, Jensen. You don't get to look at me like I betrayed you when you're the one who—"
I can't finish. Can't say it out loud.
He steps closer, and I can smell his cologne, feel the heat of him, and it's too much. It's all too much.
"I think about you every day," he says quietly. "Every single day. I tried to stop. Tried to move on. But I can't."
"I know." His hand lifts, like he's going to touch my face, then drops. "But seeing you with him… it's killing me."
"That's not my problem anymore."
I stare at him, at the pain in his eyes, and I feel myself wavering. Feel that old pull, that desperate need to comfort him, to make it okay.
"I have to go," I say, stepping back. "Jason's waiting."
I turn and walk away, my heart pounding, my hands shaking.
Not even when I feel his eyes on me, burning into my spine.
Not even when every part of me wants to turn around and fall back into him.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur.
I make it back to the table, my smile fixed in place, and Jason doesn't seem to notice that anything's wrong. He's too busy networking, shaking hands, laughing at jokes I can't hear over the roaring in my ears.
I pick at dessert—some elaborate chocolate thing that probably cost more than my rent—and pretend I'm fine.
I'm getting good at pretending.
By the time the event winds down, I'm exhausted. Not physically tired, but emotionally wrung out, like I've been through a war and barely made it out alive.
Jason's hand finds mine as we stand, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. "Ready to head out?"
"Yeah," I say, grateful for the escape.
We make our way through the thinning crowd, Jason stopping every few feet to say goodbye to someone—a business associate, a donor, a friend from college. He's good at this, the social dance of it all. Charming and genuine, making everyone feel like they matter.
I stand beside him, nodding and smiling, playing the role of the perfect plus-one.
Jensen and Danneel, making their way toward us through the crowd.
"Jason!" Danneel calls out, her face lighting up. "We were hoping to catch you before we left."
"Hey, you two," Jason says warmly, pulling Danneel into a hug. "Thanks for coming. I know these things can be a drag."
"Are you kidding? It was wonderful," Danneel says. She turns to me, her smile so genuine it hurts. "It was so nice meeting you. I hope we can do this again sometime."
"Me too," I lie, because what else can I say?
She pulls me into a hug, and I freeze for a second before returning it. She smells like jasmine and something sweet, and her embrace is warm and sincere, and I want to crawl out of my skin.
When she pulls back, Jensen is there.
He extends his hand to Jason first, the handshake firm and brief. "Good seeing you, man. We should grab drinks soon."
"Absolutely. I'll text you."
For a moment, we just look at each other. His expression is carefully neutral, but his eyes—God, his eyes are anything but. There's something raw there, something desperate and aching that makes my chest tighten.
"It was nice meeting you," he says, his voice steady.
The lie again. The pretense.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
He steps forward, and I think he's going to shake my hand, keep it professional and distant. But instead, he pulls me into a hug.
It's supposed to be brief. Polite. The kind of hug you give an acquaintance at a party.
His arms wrap around me, and he holds on just a beat too long. Long enough that I feel the solid warmth of him, the familiar shape of his body against mine. Long enough that my heart starts racing and my breath catches.
And then he leans in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear, and whispers, "I can't forget you."
The words are so quiet I almost don't hear them. Almost convince myself I imagined them.
His voice is rough, broken, and it cuts through me like a knife.
I freeze, my hands pressed against his chest, and for a second I forget how to breathe.
He pulls back before I can respond, his expression smooth and pleasant again, like nothing happened. Like he didn't just shatter me with four words.
"Take care," he says, his voice normal now, casual.
I nod, mute, and watch as he takes Danneel's hand and leads her toward the exit.
She waves at us over her shoulder, her smile bright and oblivious.
Jason's hand is on the small of my back, guiding me toward the valet stand. He's talking about something—the success of the event, maybe, or plans for next week—but I can't focus.
All I can hear is Jensen's voice in my ear.
My hands are shaking. I clasp them together, trying to steady myself, but it doesn't help.
Jason notices. "You cold?"
He shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders, and the gesture is so kind, so thoughtful, that I feel like the worst person in the world.
Because I don't want his jacket.
I don't want his kindness.
I want Jensen's hands on me. I want his voice in my ear, saying things he shouldn't say, making promises he can't keep.
I want something I can't have.
The valet brings Jason's car around—a black Jaguar F-Type that smells like leather and expensive cologne—and he opens the door for me, ever the gentleman.
I slide into the passenger seat, and he closes the door gently before walking around to the driver's side.
The engine purrs to life, and we pull away from the venue, the warm glow of the tent fading in the rearview mirror.
Jason reaches over and takes my hand, lacing his fingers through mine. "You okay? You've been quiet."
"Just tired," I say, the lie coming easily now. "It's been a long night."
"Yeah, but a good one, right?" He glances at me, his smile soft. "I'm really glad you came with me. It meant a lot."
Guilt twists in my chest, sharp and unforgiving.
"I'm glad I came too," I say, and I mean it. Sort of.
Jason is a good man. He's kind and successful and treats me like I matter. He doesn't make me feel like a secret or an afterthought. He doesn't leave me waiting by the phone, wondering if he'll show up or if something more important came along.
He's everything I should want.
But when he kisses me goodnight at my door twenty minutes later, his lips soft and careful, I don't feel anything.
No spark. No fire. No desperate, aching need.
"I'll call you tomorrow," he says, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear.
He kisses my forehead and walks back to his car, and I watch him drive away before letting myself inside.
The apartment is dark and quiet. Joan's out with Chris somewhere, and Tyler's probably at his place.
I kick off my heels and let Jason's jacket fall to the floor. The red dress suddenly feels too tight, too constricting, and I unzip it with shaking hands, letting it pool at my feet.
I stand there in my underwear, staring at my reflection in the hallway mirror.
I look the same as I did a few hours ago. Same hair, same makeup, same body.
I close my eyes and press my palms against them, trying to block out the memory of his voice, the feel of his arms around me.
I thought I was moving on. Thought three months was enough time to heal, to let go, to stop wanting something I can't have.
Because the truth is, I can't forget him either.
And I don't know if I ever will.
Four months later, and I'm still trying to convince myself I've moved on.
Some days, I almost believe it.
Jason and I are… good. We're solid. We have dinner twice a week, sometimes three. He takes me to nice restaurants where the waiters know his name and the wine list is longer than my lease agreement. We go to the theater, to gallery openings, to brunches with his colleagues where everyone is polite and successful and talks about things like market trends and vacation homes in the Hamptons.
Last week, I met his parents.
They flew in from England. His father is some kind of investment banker, his mother does charity work and sits on the board of a museum in London. They stayed at the Four Seasons, and Jason took me to dinner with them at this place downtown that required reservations three months in advance.
His mother loved me. She kept touching my hand across the table, asking about my work, my family, my thoughts on Austin versus London. His father was more reserved, but by the end of the night, he was telling stories about Jason as a boy, and I could see the pride in his eyes when he looked at his son.
"She's lovely," his mother said to Jason when she thought I couldn't hear. "Don't let this one get away."
Jason had smiled, squeezed my hand under the table, and I'd smiled back.
But the whole time, I felt like I was watching myself from outside my body. Like I was playing a role in someone else's life.
Everything is moving so fast.
I can barely catch my breath, barely process one thing before the next is happening. Meeting his parents felt significant—like crossing some invisible threshold I wasn't ready to cross. Like suddenly, this thing between us has weight and expectations and a future I haven't agreed to yet.
I still think about Jensen.
I blocked him everywhere after the gala. His number, his social media, everything. I couldn't stand the thought of seeing updates about his life—photos of his kids, his wife, their perfect family doing perfect family things. I couldn't torture myself like that anymore.
But blocking him didn't stop me from thinking about him.
It didn't stop me from wondering what he's doing, if he thinks about me, if he regrets the way things ended.
It didn't stop me from hearing his voice in my head late at night when Jason's arm is draped over my waist and I'm staring at the ceiling, feeling nothing.
The sun is barely up when I lace up my running shoes and slip out of the apartment.
Joan's still asleep, her door closed, and the living room is quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator. I grab my keys and my phone, pull my hair into a ponytail, and head out into the cool morning air.
Austin in early spring is perfect for running. The temperature is just right—not too hot, not too cold—and the streets are mostly empty at this hour. Just me, a few other joggers, and the occasional dog walker.
I head toward Zilker Park, my usual route. The path winds along the water, shaded by trees, and there's something calming about the rhythm of my feet hitting the pavement, the steady in-and-out of my breath.
Try to focus on the physical—the burn in my legs, the tightness in my chest, the way my lungs expand and contract with each breath.
But my mind won't cooperate.
It keeps circling back to Jason. To his parents. To the way his mother looked at me like I was already part of the family.
To the way Jason looks at me sometimes, like he's already planning a future I'm not sure I want.
He's a good man. I keep telling myself that, like a mantra. He's kind and thoughtful and treats me like I matter. He doesn't make me feel like a secret or an option. He doesn't leave me waiting, wondering, hoping for scraps of attention.
He's everything I should want.
So why do I feel like I'm suffocating?
I push myself harder, my pace quickening, my breath coming faster.
And then, like always, my thoughts drift to Jensen.
I wonder what he's doing right now. If he's awake yet, making coffee in that kitchen I only saw once. If his kids are up, demanding breakfast, filling the house with noise and chaos. If Danneel is there beside him, smiling that warm, genuine smile that made me hate myself.
I wonder if he thinks about me.
If he regrets what he said at the gala.
If he's moved on, the way I'm supposed to be moving on.
I blocked him so I wouldn't have to know. So I wouldn't be tempted to check his social media at 2 a.m., scrolling through photos, looking for clues, torturing myself with glimpses of a life I was never part of.
But not knowing is its own kind of torture.
Because my imagination fills in the blanks, and it's always worse than the truth.
By the time I finish my loop around the park, my legs are shaking and my shirt is damp with sweat. I slow to a walk, hands on my hips, trying to catch my breath.
I should go home. Shower. Get ready for the day.
But I'm not ready to go back yet.
So I head toward the coffee shop on the corner—the one I used to go to all the time before everything got complicated. Before Jensen. Before Jason. Back when my life was simpler, quieter, mine.
The bell above the door chimes as I step inside, and the smell of fresh coffee and baked goods hits me immediately. It's warm and familiar, and for a second, I feel like I can breathe again.
I get in line, scrolling through my phone absently, not really looking at anything.
He's sitting at a table by the window, a cup of coffee in front of him, staring out at the street like he's waiting for something.
For a second, I think about turning around, walking out before he sees me. But it's too late.
His eyes find mine, and the world narrows to just the two of us.
He doesn't smile. Doesn't wave. Just looks at me with an expression I can't quite read—something between surprise and inevitability, like he knew this would happen eventually.
I should walk out, get my coffee somewhere else, pretend I didn't see him.
But my feet carry me forward, and before I know it, I'm standing at his table.
"Hi," I say, my voice quieter than I intended.
"Hi." His voice is rough, like he hasn't used it much today.
"Can I—" I gesture to the empty chair across from him.
I sit, my hands folded in my lap, and for a moment, neither of us says anything.
The silence stretches, heavy and uncomfortable, and I'm acutely aware of how close he is. Close enough that I can see the faint stubble on his jaw, the tired lines around his eyes, the way his shoulders are hunched like he's carrying something too heavy.
"You look good," he says finally, his eyes scanning my face.
It's a lie. He looks exhausted. There's a sadness in his eyes that wasn't there before, a weariness that makes him seem older, more fragile.
"You come here a lot?" I ask, trying to fill the silence.
"Sometimes." He takes a sip of his coffee, his gaze dropping to the table. "I remembered you used to."
The admission hangs in the air between us, and I don't know what to do with it.
He came here because of me. Because he knows me. Knows my habits, my routines, the places I go when I need to think.
"I haven't been here in a while," I say.
Another silence. This one feels heavier, loaded with all the things we're not saying.
"How have you been?" he asks, his voice careful, like he's afraid of the answer.
It's not a question. It's a statement, and the way he says it—like he's been holding onto this knowledge for months, turning it over in his mind—makes my stomach drop.
He nods slowly, his jaw tightening. His eyes finally meet mine, and there's something raw in them. Something that looks like he's been carrying this weight the entire time.
"He seems like a good guy," Jensen says, and the words sound like they cost him something. "I saw you two together that night. You looked… happy."
Another lie, but not one I told. One he's been telling himself.
"He is," I say, my voice tight. "He's a good guy."
He nods again, but his hands grip his coffee cup a little too tightly, and I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he's holding himself together by a thread.
"How about you?" I ask, even though I don't want to know. "How's… everything?"
"Fine." The word is clipped, final, like a door slamming shut.
But I can see through it. I can see the cracks in his armor, the way his hands grip his coffee cup a little too tightly, the way his eyes won't quite meet mine.
"Are you happy?" he asks suddenly, cutting me off.
The question catches me off guard. I wasn't expecting it.
"With Jason." His eyes finally meet mine, and the intensity in them makes my breath catch. "Are you happy with him?"
I open my mouth to answer, but the words stick in my throat.
I should be. Jason is everything I thought I wanted—stable, successful, present. He doesn't make me feel like an afterthought. He doesn't leave me waiting by the phone, wondering if he'll show up.
But when he kisses me, I don't feel anything.
When he holds me, I don't feel safe.
"Yes," I say finally, forcing the word out. "I'm happy."
The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.
Jensen's face doesn't change, but something in his eyes dims. Like a light going out.
"Good," he says quietly. "That's… that's good."
But I can see the way his shoulders sag, the way his hands tremble slightly as he sets his coffee cup down.
I want to take it back. Want to tell him the truth—that I'm not happy, that I think about him every day, that I can't forget him no matter how hard I try.
Because what would be the point?
He made his choice. He chose his family, his marriage, his life.
And I chose to walk away.
"I should go," I say, standing abruptly. "Jason's probably wondering where I am."
Another lie. Jason doesn't even know I went for a run this morning.
Jensen nods, his eyes dropping to the table. "Yeah. Of course."
I turn to leave, but his voice stops me.
I glance back at him, and the look on his face—sad, resigned, broken—makes my chest ache.
And then I walk out, the bell above the door chiming behind me, and I don't look back.
By the time I get home, my hands are shaking.
I strip off my running clothes and step into the shower, turning the water as hot as I can stand. I let it pour over me, washing away the sweat, the tension, the memory of Jensen's eyes on mine.
I press my forehead against the cool tile and close my eyes, trying to breathe through the tightness in my chest.
The question echoes in my head, relentless.
I don't know if I'm happy, or if I'm just going through the motions, playing the part of someone who has her life together.
I don't know if I'm with Jason because I want to be, or because it's easier than being alone.
I don't know anything anymore.
By the time I get out of the shower, my phone is ringing.
Jason's name flashes on the screen.
I take a breath, force a smile even though he can't see me, and answer.
"Hey, beautiful." His voice is warm, easy. "How's your day going?"
"Good. Just got back from a run."
"Nice. Listen, I was thinking—do you want to come over for dinner tonight? I'll cook."
Jason's idea of cooking usually involves ordering from some upscale meal kit service and following the instructions to the letter, but it's sweet that he tries.
"Sure," I say. "What time?"
"Perfect. I'll see you then."
He hangs up, and I stare at my phone for a long moment, trying to muster some kind of enthusiasm.
I should be excited. A quiet dinner with my boyfriend, just the two of us. It should feel romantic, intimate.
Jason's place is in West Lake Hills, a sleek, modern house with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of the city that probably cost more than I'll make in a lifetime.
He answers the door in jeans and a button-down, barefoot, his hair slightly mussed in a way that's probably intentional.
"Hey," he says, pulling me into a kiss. "You look amazing."
I'm wearing jeans and a simple blouse—nothing special—but I smile and let him lead me inside.
The kitchen smells like garlic and herbs, and there's a bottle of wine already open on the counter.
"I'm making chicken piccata," he says, pouring me a glass. "Or at least, I'm attempting to."
"I'm sure it'll be great."
We fall into an easy rhythm—him cooking, me sitting at the counter, sipping wine and watching him work. He tells me about his day, some deal he's working on, a client who's being difficult. I nod and laugh in the right places, and it all feels so normal, so comfortable.
So why do I feel like I'm drowning?
By the time we sit down to eat, the food is actually good. Jason's pleased with himself, and I tell him so, and he grins like a kid who just aced a test.
We talk about everything and nothing—work, friends, a trip he's planning to Napa in the fall. He asks if I want to come with him, and I say maybe, and he doesn't push.
And then, out of nowhere, he says, "Hey, do you remember that couple I introduced you to at the charity event a few months back?"
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth.
"Yeah," I say carefully, setting it down. "Why?"
"I heard something today at the office." He takes a sip of wine, oblivious to the way my heart is suddenly racing. "Apparently, they're getting a divorce."
"Yeah. Jensen and Danneel. Crazy, right? They seemed so solid. I mean, they have kids and everything." He shakes his head. "It's sad. You never really know what's going on behind closed doors, I guess."
My hands are gripping the edge of the table, my knuckles white, and I'm trying to keep my face neutral, trying to look like this news doesn't matter.
It matters so much I feel like I'm going to shatter.
"Yeah," I manage, my voice barely above a whisper. "That's… that's really sad."
"They were so good together," Jason continues, oblivious. "I always thought they were one of those couples, you know? The kind that makes it."
"Yeah," I say again, because I don't trust myself to say anything else.
Jensen and Danneel are getting a divorce.
The words echo in my head, over and over, and I don't know what to do with them.
I don't know if I'm relieved or devastated or guilty or all of the above.
All I know is that everything just changed.
Jason reaches across the table and takes my hand, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. "Hey, you okay? You look a little pale."
"I'm fine," I lie, forcing a smile. "Just… it's sad, you know? Divorce is always sad."
"Yeah." He squeezes my hand gently. "But hey, let's not dwell on other people's problems. I wanted to ask you something."
I blink, trying to pull myself back into the moment, into this room, into this conversation with this man who is holding my hand and looking at me like I'm the only thing that matters.
"What are you doing this weekend?" he asks.
"This weekend?" I repeat, my brain still foggy. "Nothing. Why?"
His face lights up, and there's something boyish in his excitement, something endearing. "There's this new restaurant that just opened downtown. Elysian. My friend Marcus owns it—he's been working on it for years, and it finally opened last month. It's supposed to be incredible. French-inspired, but with a modern twist. I've been dying to take you."
"That sounds amazing," I say, and I mean it. Or at least, I want to mean it.
"Saturday night?" he asks, his eyes hopeful. "I'll make a reservation. We can make a whole evening of it."
"Saturday night," I echo, nodding. "Yeah. That sounds perfect."
He grins, and there's something so genuine in his happiness that it makes my chest ache.
"Perfect," he says, lifting my hand to his lips and pressing a soft kiss to my knuckles. "I can't wait."
I smile back at him, but inside, I'm screaming.
Because all I can think about is Jensen.
Jensen, who is getting a divorce.
Jensen, who looked at me in that coffee shop like he was drowning.
Jensen, who whispered I can't forget you at a charity gala while his wife—his now soon-to-be ex-wife—waited outside.
The week that follows is a blur.
I go through the motions. I wake up, I go to work, I answer Jason's texts, I smile when I'm supposed to smile.
But inside, I'm unraveling.
I think about Jensen constantly.
I wonder if I should call him. Text him. Reach out somehow.
But what would I even say?
I heard you're getting a divorce. Are you okay?
None of it feels right. None of it feels like enough.
Jason, who is kind and patient and everything I should want.
Jason, who is planning a special dinner for us at a restaurant his friend owns.
Jason, who looks at me like I hung the moon.
Things are finally good. Finally stable.
So why does it feel like I'm suffocating?
I catch myself checking my phone obsessively, even though I blocked Jensen months ago. I scroll through old photos, old messages, torturing myself with memories I should have deleted.
I think about unblocking him. About sending a message. About breaking the silence.
Because I'm terrified of what might happen if I do.
By Wednesday, I'm a mess.
"Okay, what's going on with you?"
Joan's voice cuts through the noise of the bar, sharp and direct. She's sitting across from me, her martini glass half-empty, her eyes narrowed in that way that means she's not letting this go.
Chris and Tyler are on either side of me, and I can feel their eyes on me too.
"Nothing," I say, taking a sip of my wine. "I'm fine."
"Bullshit," Joan says flatly. "You've been weird all week. You barely responded to the group chat, you've been spacing out constantly, and right now you look like you're about to cry into your Pinot Grigio."
"I'm not going to cry," I mutter, but my voice cracks a little, and I hate myself for it.
Tyler puts a hand on my shoulder. "Hey. Talk to us. What's going on?"
I stare down at my glass, watching the wine swirl as I tilt it slightly. The candlelight from the table flickers across the surface, and for a moment, I consider lying. Brushing it off. Pretending everything is fine.
But I'm so tired of pretending.
"Jensen and Danneel are getting a divorce," I say quietly.
There's a beat of silence.
"Oh," Chris says softly. "Oh, honey."
"Jason told me," I continue, my voice barely above a whisper. "Last Sunday. He just… mentioned it casually, like it was nothing. And I—I didn't know what to say. I didn't know what to feel."
"Have you talked to Jensen?" Joan asks, her tone gentler now.
"No. I blocked him months ago. I haven't talked to him since…" I trail off, swallowing hard. "Since I ended it."
"But you saw him," Tyler says. "At the gala. And then at the coffee shop."
I nod. "Yeah. And he looked… God, he looked so sad. So hurt. And I just—I don't know what to do."
"Do you still have feelings for him?" Chris asks carefully.
I close my eyes, and the answer is immediate, visceral, undeniable.
The word hangs in the air between us, heavy and raw.
"But I'm with Jason," I add quickly, opening my eyes. "And Jason is… he's good to me. He's kind and stable and he actually wants me. He's not married. He's not hiding me. He's—"
"He's not Jensen," Joan finishes quietly.
I look at her, and there are tears burning in my eyes now. "No. He's not."
"So what are you going to do?" Tyler asks.
"I don't know," I whisper. "I don't know."
Chris reaches over and squeezes my hand. "You don't have to figure it out right now. But you need to be honest with yourself. About what you want. About what you feel."
"I don't want to hurt Jason," I say, my voice breaking. "He doesn't deserve that."
"No, he doesn't," Joan agrees. "But you don't deserve to be miserable either."
I wipe at my eyes, trying to pull myself together. "I'm not miserable. I'm just… confused."
"That's okay," Tyler says gently. "Confusion is okay."
But it doesn't feel okay.
It feels like I'm standing at a crossroads, and no matter which direction I choose, someone is going to get hurt.
By Friday, I'm desperate for a distraction.
I deliberately avoid my usual coffee shop—the one near Zilker Park, the one where Jensen found me last week. Instead, I drive across town to a place I've never been, a small café tucked into a quiet neighborhood.
It's cozy and unfamiliar, and I tell myself that's exactly what I need.
I order a latte and find a table by the window, pulling out my laptop and pretending to work.
My mind keeps drifting back to Jensen. To the divorce. To the way he looked at me in that coffee shop, like he was holding back a thousand words.
I'm so lost in my thoughts that I don't notice when the door opens.
I don't notice until I hear the barista greet someone, and something in the tone—something familiar—makes me look up.
He's standing by the counter, his back to me, ordering a coffee. He's wearing a dark jacket and jeans, his hair slightly messy, and even from here, I can see the tension in his shoulders.
To anyone else, he'd probably look fine. Normal. But I know him too well.
I know the way he holds himself when he's hurting.
He turns, coffee in hand, and his eyes sweep the room.
And then they land on me.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
We just stare at each other, the air between us thick with everything we're not saying.
He nods—just a small, polite acknowledgment—and then he walks to a table across the room and sits down.
Not next to me. Not close.
We sit there, across the café from each other, and the silence is deafening.
I can feel his eyes on me. I can feel the weight of his presence, the pull of him, like gravity.
And I can't take it anymore.
I close my laptop, pick up my coffee, and walk over to his table.
He looks up as I approach, surprise flickering across his face.
"Can I sit?" I ask quietly.
He nods, and I slide into the chair across from him.
For a moment, we just sit there, not speaking, the space between us charged with everything we've been avoiding.
"How did you find me?" I finally ask.
"I didn't," he says, his voice rough. "I just… needed coffee. And this place was close."
"Right," I say softly. "The divorce."
He flinches slightly at the word, but he doesn't look away. "Yeah. The divorce."
"Why didn't you tell me?" The question comes out before I can stop it, raw and accusing.
He exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. "I was going to."
"I don't know," he admits. "I just… I needed to know you were happy with Jason before I ruined your life again."
The words hit me like a punch to the chest.
"Ruined my life?" I repeat, my voice shaking. "Jensen, you didn't—"
"I did," he interrupts, his eyes meeting mine. "I dragged you into something you should never have been part of. I made you the other woman. I made you feel like you weren't enough. And then I let you walk away because I was too much of a coward to fight for you."
"You were married," I say quietly. "You are married."
The words hang between us, heavy and loaded.
"Is that why?" I ask. "Is that why you're getting divorced? Because of… us?"
He shakes his head. "No. It's not because of you. It's because of me. Because I've been lying to myself for years. Because I stayed in something that stopped working a long time ago, and I convinced myself it was the right thing to do. For the kids. For Danneel. For everyone except myself."
"Now I'm trying to do the right thing," he says. "For everyone. Including you."
He looks at me, and there's so much pain in his eyes that it makes my chest ache. "It means I'm letting you be happy. With Jason. With someone who can give you what you deserve."
I open my mouth, then close it again. The lie sits between us, heavy and suffocating. I could tell him the truth. I could confess that I lied, that I'm not happy, that I can't stop thinking about him.
But what good would that do?
It would only hurt him more. It would make him feel guilty for the divorce, for moving on, for trying to do the right thing.
I look away, my hands trembling in my lap, and I say nothing.
He watches me, waiting for me to speak, and I can see the moment he understands. The moment he realizes that the silence itself is an answer.
We sit there in silence, the weight of everything unsaid—including the lie—pressing down on us like a physical thing.
Finally, he stands. "I should go."
"Take care of yourself," he says softly. "Be happy. Even if it's not with me."
I sit there alone, staring at the empty chair across from me, and I feel like I'm breaking all over again. But this time, there's something else too—a heavy, suffocating guilt. Because I let him leave thinking I'm happy with Jason. I let him leave believing he's doing the right thing by letting me go.
And I didn't tell him the truth.
When I get home, I collapse onto my couch and stare at the ceiling.
I think about Jensen. About the divorce. About the way he looked at me in that café, like he was saying goodbye.
I think about Jason. About the dinner tomorrow night. About the way he makes me feel safe and wanted and chosen.
And I don't know what to do.
I don't know how to reconcile the person I am with Jason—the person who is stable and happy and moving forward—with the person I am when I think about Jensen—the person who is messy and broken and still holding on.
I feel like I'm regressing. Like I'm back to where I was months ago, when I was waiting for Jensen to choose me, when I was settling for scraps of his attention.
I hate that I'm doing this to myself again.
Saturday arrives, and I throw myself into getting ready.
I need the distraction. I need to focus on something other than the chaos in my head.
I choose a short, sleeveless black mini dress with a high neckline and a clean, straight silhouette that hugs my body without being fussy. There are small metallic buckle details at the waist and hip, adding a subtle edge to the simplicity of the black fabric. The dress hits mid-thigh, showing off my legs, and I pair it with black platform heels with an ankle strap and an open toe. The thick platform and tall heel give me height and drama while still feeling structured and intentional.
I keep my accessories minimal—a small clutch with a chain strap, no bold jewelry. My hair is down and softly tousled, contrasting nicely with the sharpness of the dress and heels.
When I look in the mirror, I see someone who looks confident. Put-together. In control.
Jason picks me up at seven, and the moment I see him, I feel a pang of guilt.
He looks so happy. So excited.
"You look incredible," he says, his eyes sweeping over me with genuine admiration.
"Thank you," I say, smiling. "You look pretty great yourself."
He's wearing a tailored navy suit with a crisp white shirt, no tie, the top button undone. He looks effortlessly polished, and when he offers me his arm, I take it.
The restaurant is everything he promised.
Elysian is tucked into a renovated historic building downtown, all exposed brick and soft lighting and elegant minimalism. The tables are draped in white linen, and there are fresh flowers on every surface. The menu is small and curated, each dish a work of art.
Jason orders a bottle of wine, and we talk and laugh and eat, and for a little while, I forget about everything else.
I forget about Jensen. About the divorce. About the coffee shop and the way he looked at me like he was letting me go.
I focus on Jason. On the way he listens when I talk. On the way he makes me feel seen and valued and important.
It's really, really good.
By the time we finish dessert—a delicate lavender panna cotta that melts on my tongue—I'm feeling lighter than I have all week.
"Thank you for this," I say as we walk back to his car. "It was perfect."
"I'm glad you enjoyed it," he says, opening the passenger door for me. "But the night's not over yet."
I raise an eyebrow. "Oh?"
He just smiles, mysterious and pleased with himself, and drives us back to his house in the West Lake Hills.
When we pull into his driveway, everything looks normal.
But when he opens the front door and steps aside to let me in, I freeze.
The house has been transformed.
A softly lit pathway leads across the warm wooden floors, lined on both sides with clusters of glowing candles. Their light flickers gently, casting golden reflections that dance along the floor and up the walls. Red rose petals are scattered generously between the candles, forming a romantic trail that draws the eye forward and invites slow, intentional steps.
The path rises slightly toward open glass doors, beyond which the night air waits. Outside, the balcony is dim but enchanting—silhouetted florals and arrangements stand against the darkness, their shapes softly illuminated by candlelight and subtle ambient glow. The city beyond is quiet and distant, reduced to faint lights and shadows, making the space feel private and suspended in time.
Inside, the furniture has been moved aside, as if respectfully giving way to the moment. The contrast between the dark night outside and the warm, glowing interior creates a cocoon-like feeling—romantic, intentional, and deeply personal.
"Jason," I breathe, my hand flying to my mouth. "What is this?"
He doesn't answer. He just takes my hand and leads me forward, down the candlelit path, toward the open doors.
I don't know if it's from excitement or fear or something in between.
When we reach the balcony, he stops and turns to face me.
And then he drops to one knee.
"Wait," he says softly, his eyes shining in the candlelight. "Let me say this."
I nod, my throat tight, my hands trembling.
"I know this might seem too soon," he begins, his voice steady but full of emotion. "We've only been together a few months. But I've never felt like this before. I've never met anyone who makes me feel the way you do. You're smart and funny and beautiful, and when I'm with you, everything just… makes sense."
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small velvet box.
"I don't want to waste time," he continues. "I don't want to wait and wonder and second-guess. I know what I want. And what I want is you. For the rest of my life."
He opens the box, and inside is the most stunning ring I've ever seen.
At the center is a marquise-cut diamond, set vertically so it stretches gracefully along the finger. The stone is tall and slender, with sharp, pointed tips that give it a dramatic, almost leaf-like shape. It's held in place by delicate prongs that follow the diamond's contours without overpowering it, letting light flood in from every angle.
On each side of the center stone, small marquise-shaped accent diamonds fan outward, like petals or wings, adding softness and balance to the bold center. These side stones taper gently into the band, creating a seamless, flowing transition.
The band is yellow gold, warm and polished, providing a rich contrast to the icy brilliance of the diamonds. It's slim and refined, keeping the focus on the stones while still feeling substantial and luxurious.
It's romantic. Refined. Timeless.
"Will you marry me?" Jason asks, his voice breaking slightly.
At the candles and the rose petals and the life he's offering me.
A life that is safe and stable and full of love.
A life where I am chosen. Where I am wanted. Where I am enough.
And all I can think about is Jensen.
Jensen, who is getting a divorce.
Jensen, who looked at me in that café and told me to be happy.
Jensen, who I can't forget, no matter how hard I try.
And I don't know what to say.
