Andrew’s POV

I sat in a dark corner of a rundown bar, the kind of place where nobody asks your name. The air smelled like old beer and cigarette smoke. My glass of whiskey sat half-empty on the sticky table, but it wasn’t helping.

Emilie’s words from last night kept playing in my head, over and over, like a song I couldn’t stop: “It’s too late, Andrew. I’m his wife now.” Every time I heard them, my chest tightened, like someone was squeezing my heart. I’d told her I still ...