I knew the marriage wasn’t perfect.
But I didn’t think I’d be this lonely, just three months in.
Jason barely looked at me anymore — not unless I was holding coffee or passing him his laptop. When he touched me in bed, it felt like an afterthought. Quick. Mechanical. Like checking a box.
So when he suggested we spend the weekend at his family’s country estate — a break from work, a chance to reconnect — I said yes too quickly.
I thought maybe a change of scenery would bring back the spark.
I wasn’t expecting Richard Blackwell.
His father.
We pulled into the gravel driveway late Friday afternoon. The house — no, the mansion — was surrounded by pines and gardens too perfectly kept. The kind of place you only saw in magazines. Ivy crawling up the brick. A long porch with white columns.
