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His Wife, His Mistake
Chapter Sixteen: I Never Stopped Loving Him
POV: Arya
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Weeks passed.
And still, I told myself I didn't care.
That Damon's silence didn't bother me.
That the empty bench outside my gallery didn't feel like a hollow echo of what almost was.
That my heart didn't sink just a little more each time I looked out and saw… nothing.
But it did.
Every time.
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He didn't come back.
Not after Sophia.
Not after I said those things — cold and sharp and unforgiving.
And I meant every word.
At the time.
But now…
Now, the silence had begun to stretch too far.
Too long.
Too deep.
And beneath it all, there was a question I couldn't kill:
"What if he really gave up?"
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Liam noticed, of course.
He didn't say much — he never did when something bothered me.
But his drawings stopped including the man with the books.
He didn't ask about Damon anymore.
He just grew quieter.
And I hated that I was the reason.
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I tried to distract myself with the gallery.
New pieces. New clients. The spring art fair.
But my hands felt slower.
My brush heavier.
I'd stare at a canvas and think of his voice — deep, patient, the way it once whispered "Stay" in the dark.
I missed him.
I missed Damon.
And I hated myself for it.
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Because wasn't I the one who told him to go?
Wasn't I the one who slammed the door and threw his letters away?
Wasn't I the one who told Liam his father had "complicated feelings"?
And now?
Now I stood in my studio at midnight, painting a man with sad eyes and dark hair, only to tear it apart an hour later.
Because I couldn't say the truth out loud.
But it sat in my chest like a second heartbeat.
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I never stopped loving him.
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That truth tasted bitter.
Because it meant I wasn't over it.
Because it meant he still had a piece of me I never really took back.
And that scared me.
Loving Damon was never the problem.
It was what love did to me.
It broke me once.
I wasn't sure I'd survive it again.
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But love doesn't ask permission.
It doesn't wait for the right time.
It just stays.
Quiet. Lingering. Steady.
And even now, even after all this — it was still there.
Buried beneath my pride, my pain, my panic.
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Some nights, I'd wake up thinking I heard a knock at the door.
But it was just the wind.
Or my guilt.
Or my heart trying to summon something that wasn't coming.
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I told myself I was better off.
That Liam was better off.
That a man who left once could do it again.
But Damon hadn't left this time.
Not really.
He'd respected the space I demanded.
He gave me silence because I wouldn't listen to anything else.
He did what I asked.
And somehow… that hurt more than all the begging in the world.
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The day I found his sweater in the back of my closet, I stood there for ten minutes, staring at it like it might vanish.
It still smelled like cedar and wind.
It still felt like comfort.
And when I pulled it over my head, I didn't cry.
I just sat on the floor, knees to chest, and whispered into the quiet,
"I miss you."
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I never meant to miss him.
But I did.
I missed his stubbornness.
His patience.
The way he looked at Liam like the world made sense again.
And worst of all?
I missed what we could've been.
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Love after betrayal isn't soft.
It's sharp.
It's cautious.
It's holding your breath every time someone knocks, unsure if it's hope or heartbreak on the other side.
And I was tired of holding my breath.
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Miriam noticed the change in me.
"You okay?" she asked one evening as we cleaned up after a long gallery day.
"I'm tired," I said.
She didn't push.
But I knew she knew.
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"I thought I'd feel free," I whispered after a long pause.
"Do you?" she asked gently.
"No," I said. "I feel… unfinished."
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I didn't want to admit that Damon had changed.
That he wasn't the same man who let me walk out barefoot and pregnant in the night.
That maybe… just maybe… he had come back because he was ready to stay.
But it was true.
He had changed.
And the worst part?
I saw it too late.
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The bench outside stayed empty.
And so did a piece of me.
Because this time, he didn't give up.
He gave space.
He gave respect.
And somehow, that's the version of him I missed most.
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I told myself I didn't love him anymore.
But love doesn't disappear just because you tell it to.
It lives in the quiet.
In the ache.
In the memory of a name whispered when no one else can hear.
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And for weeks now… all I've heard is his name.
Even in silence.
Especially in silence.
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