The Other Woman in His Shadows - Chapter 2: Chapter 2
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Yves strolled over with a raised eyebrow, nudging me playfully. "Zoey, you think those two might rekindle things?" His voice carried just enough for Jason to catch.
Jason's head snapped up at Yves' comment. When his eyes landed on me standing nearby, I caught the briefest flash of guilt before it vanished.
"Getting back together was never on the table," Jason rushed to explain. "She's just drunk—"
I gave a small, knowing smile. "It's fine, Jason. Shairine's clearly wasted. You should get her home safe."
His frown deepened at my casual tone, but he didn't argue. As he guided Shairine away, he threw back at Yves, "Don't let Zoey stay out too late. Make sure she gets home."
Watching them leave, my chest ached with that familiar sting—and the bitter irony. In my past life, I'd actually married Jason like I'd always dreamed. Turns out dreams make for terrible reality.
On my birthday, all I wanted was a quiet evening together. His response? "Birthdays are pointless. I'm busy." That same night, Shairine's Instagram showed them hiking under the stars.
When my ulcer flared up and I begged him to take me to the ER: "I'm not a doctor. Stop bothering me." The next week, he took Shairine in for a sniffle.
Eight months pregnant, bleeding out after a car crash, the doctor called him to sign emergency surgery forms. His reply still chills me: "Is she dead? No? Then don't call me." Through the phone, I heard Shairine squealing about some concert they were at.
The call ended. Blood kept spreading across the hospital sheets until everything went dark.
Remembering that suffocating pain from my death, I clutched my chest and let out a hollow laugh. Fine, Jason. If you never loved me, consider this me returning the favor.
Yves got me home right under Dad's curfew.
Next morning, my phone buzzed with a text from Shairine before I'd even opened my eyes—a photo of Jason passed out on her couch. [He stayed over to take care of me ♡]
I typed back a deadpan "Oh" and dropped my phone.
She couldn't resist sending another shot—breakfast this time. [Look what Jason made me! Heart-shaped eggs, just how I like them.]
My coffee turned bitter in my mouth. Jason wouldn't step foot in our kitchen, always claiming "that's women's work." So I—who'd never boiled water—took cooking classes just to feed him.
And here he was playing chef for her. Pathetic.
I left her on read and kept eating. Five minutes later, Jason's text popped up—no mention of last night, just: [That yam pork rib soup you made? Bring some to the office today. And hold the scallions.]
Jason's head snapped up at Yves' comment. When his eyes landed on me standing nearby, I caught the briefest flash of guilt before it vanished.
"Getting back together was never on the table," Jason rushed to explain. "She's just drunk—"
I gave a small, knowing smile. "It's fine, Jason. Shairine's clearly wasted. You should get her home safe."
His frown deepened at my casual tone, but he didn't argue. As he guided Shairine away, he threw back at Yves, "Don't let Zoey stay out too late. Make sure she gets home."
Watching them leave, my chest ached with that familiar sting—and the bitter irony. In my past life, I'd actually married Jason like I'd always dreamed. Turns out dreams make for terrible reality.
On my birthday, all I wanted was a quiet evening together. His response? "Birthdays are pointless. I'm busy." That same night, Shairine's Instagram showed them hiking under the stars.
When my ulcer flared up and I begged him to take me to the ER: "I'm not a doctor. Stop bothering me." The next week, he took Shairine in for a sniffle.
Eight months pregnant, bleeding out after a car crash, the doctor called him to sign emergency surgery forms. His reply still chills me: "Is she dead? No? Then don't call me." Through the phone, I heard Shairine squealing about some concert they were at.
The call ended. Blood kept spreading across the hospital sheets until everything went dark.
Remembering that suffocating pain from my death, I clutched my chest and let out a hollow laugh. Fine, Jason. If you never loved me, consider this me returning the favor.
Yves got me home right under Dad's curfew.
Next morning, my phone buzzed with a text from Shairine before I'd even opened my eyes—a photo of Jason passed out on her couch. [He stayed over to take care of me ♡]
I typed back a deadpan "Oh" and dropped my phone.
She couldn't resist sending another shot—breakfast this time. [Look what Jason made me! Heart-shaped eggs, just how I like them.]
My coffee turned bitter in my mouth. Jason wouldn't step foot in our kitchen, always claiming "that's women's work." So I—who'd never boiled water—took cooking classes just to feed him.
And here he was playing chef for her. Pathetic.
I left her on read and kept eating. Five minutes later, Jason's text popped up—no mention of last night, just: [That yam pork rib soup you made? Bring some to the office today. And hold the scallions.]
End of The Other Woman in His Shadows Chapter 2. Continue reading Chapter 3 or return to The Other Woman in His Shadows book page.