My Husband Married His Brother's Widow

The darkness in the living room felt heavier than usual, pressing against my shoulders like a weighted blanket I couldn't shake off. I'd been sitting in this same spot for hours, my phone still warm in my palm from the call with my parents in London. Their voices had been so hopeful, so certain that moving across the ocean was the right choice for Birdie and me.

"The immigration papers are all sorted, darling," Mum had said. "Just one more week, and you'll both be home."

Home. The word felt foreign on my tongue after six years in this city, six years of waiting for Garrett to make good on promises that grew thinner with each passing month.

A soft sound from down the hallway reminded me that Birdie was curled up in her bed, probably dreaming of tomorrow's birthday party. Six years old tomorrow. Six years of her asking why Daddy Garrett couldn't marry Mommy like her friends' parents. Six years of me making excuses for a man who—

The front door clicked open, and familiar footsteps echoed in the hallway.

"Why didn't you wait for me in the bedroom? It's freezing out here."

Garrett's voice hit me before the hallway light did, casting his tall silhouette against the doorframe. Even in the dim light, I could see the way his dark hair was slightly mussed, his tie loosened around his neck. But it was the scent that made my stomach clench—not the usual cigarette smoke or cologne, but something floral and delicate. Jasmine.

"I needed some air," I said, not moving from my position on the couch.

He approached with that easy smile that used to make my heart race, the one that had first caught my attention ten years ago when we were both different people with different dreams. Now it just looked practiced.

"Come here," he murmured, reaching for me with hands that smelled like soap and something else—something that definitely wasn't his usual aftershave.

I pushed his hands away instinctively, the jasmine scent growing stronger as he leaned closer. "Garrett, don't."

He laughed, a sound that was supposed to be charming but felt hollow in the quiet room. "What's wrong with you tonight? You're acting like I'm a stranger."

"You smell like perfume."

For just a moment, something flickered across his face—guilt, maybe, or annoyance at being caught. But then that practiced smile was back. "Sarah from accounting. You know how she bathes in that stuff. I couldn't avoid her in the elevator."

Sarah. Always Sarah, or Jennifer, or whoever else happened to be convenient for his explanations. He moved to kiss my forehead, that familiar gesture that used to feel like coming home. Now his lips felt cold against my skin.

"I missed you," he whispered, his hands sliding under my sweater with a hunger that had grown more desperate over the past six months. I'd thought it meant he was finally ready to commit, finally ready to choose us over his family's expectations.