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His Wife, His Mistake
Chapter Eight: No Second Chances
Word Count: 1000
POV: Arya
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I didn't want him in my gallery.
I didn't want him in my town.
And I certainly didn't want him around Liam.
Every time Damon stepped through that door — in his sharp clothes and unreadable expression — it was like a crack forming in the foundation I'd spent four years repairing.
He was a ghost with a pulse. A past I'd buried. A lesson I'd bled through.
And now he wanted to pretend he had a place here?
No.
Not now.
Not after everything.
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He came by the next day.
And the next.
He stood outside my studio sometimes, pretending to browse the flower shop next door or buying coffee from the little cart across the street. But I knew why he was there.
He was waiting for me to soften.
He didn't understand — I had no softness left for him.
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One morning, I walked into the gallery to find Liam drawing quietly at the back table and Damon sitting across from him.
Smiling.
Talking.
Liam was laughing.
I froze.
Time didn't stop — it exploded in my ears like a siren.
"Liam," I called sharply.
Both their heads turned.
Damon stood up instantly. "I didn't mean to— He was just here, and I thought—"
"You thought what?" I snapped, storming toward them. "That you could just walk in and insert yourself into his life? Like a storybook dad coming back from war?"
"Arya—"
"No," I said, voice low now, dangerous. "Get out."
He didn't argue. He looked at Liam once — with something like regret — and walked out.
I locked the door behind him.
Liam looked up at me, confused.
"Why are you mad at the nice man?"
I dropped to my knees, heart cracking again.
Because he was supposed to be here when you took your first steps.
Because he was supposed to hold my hand in the delivery room.
Because he broke me and walked away like I was nothing.
But I couldn't say any of that.
So I whispered, "He's not a stranger, baby. But he's not a nice man either."
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I knew I'd have to explain more one day.
That Liam would start asking real questions.
That "He lives far away" wouldn't be enough anymore.
But I didn't want Damon confusing him.
I didn't want my child forming attachments to someone who disappeared when things got hard.
He had already lost his chance.
Four years ago.
When he chose silence over love.
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Later that week, Damon sent flowers.
I didn't open the card.
Then came a handwritten letter, folded into an envelope and slid under the door.
I burned it.
Then he left a book — a children's story, signed at the front: To Liam, from Dad.
I returned it without a note.
He was trying, yes. But it was too late for trying.
He should have tried when I was vomiting in the dark, alone.
He should have tried when I cried through contractions with no one's hand to hold.
He should have tried when I packed a bag and walked out the door without looking back — and he didn't even notice.
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One evening, Miriam — my landlady and the closest thing I had to family in Westbrook — sat with me in the garden.
She was trimming her roses when she said, "The man you left… he's the boy's father?"
I nodded slowly.
She hummed thoughtfully. "He doesn't seem cruel."
I scoffed. "You didn't know him then."
"And you don't know him now."
I bit my lip.
She wasn't defending him. She was reminding me I was still angry. And grief, when held too long, begins to feel like armor.
But I didn't say that.
I just said, "Liam doesn't need a father who shows up four years late."
And Miriam, ever gentle, replied, "No… but maybe he deserves the truth."
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I didn't sleep that night.
I watched Liam from the doorway of his room.
He was clutching his favorite dinosaur plush, mouth parted slightly, curls stuck to his forehead.
He looked like Damon.
I hated that.
But I also loved it.
Because no matter how deep the pain went, Liam was a piece of both of us — a piece I'd die to protect.
And I wasn't ready to hand him over to someone who'd already proven they couldn't love right.
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The next time Damon showed up, I met him outside.
"You don't get to play father now," I said coldly. "You don't get to read him stories or sit beside him like you were never gone."
"I'm not trying to replace anything," he said, quietly. "I just want to know him."
"And what happens when you disappear again?" I demanded. "When work calls? When it gets uncomfortable? You think I'll let him get attached only to watch you vanish?"
His jaw clenched. "I'm not leaving."
"You already did."
"I didn't know—"
"No," I cut in. "You didn't care. That's worse."
He looked like he wanted to fight that — argue, explain, beg — but then his shoulders slumped.
"I know I messed up," he whispered. "But I want to fix it."
I stared at him.
This wasn't the Damon I remembered. This wasn't the cold businessman. This was a man who looked like he'd finally realized what he lost.
Still… it wasn't enough.
Not yet.
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"You can't come near him unless I say so," I told him.
"I understand."
"You don't get to call yourself 'Dad.'"
"I won't."
"And if you ever confuse him again—"
"I won't," he repeated, firmer this time. "I swear."
I nodded once.
Then I turned and walked away, heart trembling, eyes stinging.
Because even now, even after everything…
Part of me still wanted to believe him.
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