That evening, when Emma opened the workbook, her heart skipped. Ethan's neat handwriting sprawled across the page, more insistent than ever:
Emma, you're hiding something from me. I can feel it. Every time you write, there's this heaviness in your words. Like you already know how our story ends. Why won't you tell me? What aren't you saying?
Emma swallowed hard, pen hovering. She wanted to tell him everything—that Diana would seduce him, that he would betray their marriage, that Emma would be left barren and broken while Diana carried his child.
But would her words help? Or would they plant the seeds of the very tragedy she sought to prevent?
Finally, she wrote:
Because the truth would destroy you.
The reply came swiftly, almost angry:
Then let it. I'd rather know than live blind. You owe me that, Emma. If you love me, don't keep me in the dark.
Emma pressed the pen hard, tears smearing the ink. I did love you. More than anything. But you broke me. And I don't know how to forgive that, even if I wanted to.
A chilling silence followed, the workbook's pages holding her confession like a mirror of pain.