Prologue

September 7, 2009

"Why did you go to her?"

As I look up and into those familiar green eyes, the depth of hurt that greets me is enough to knock me off of my feet. I'm not ready for this conversation, and I know we aren't. Not by a long shot. We stand on opposite sides of the custom kitchen island in our dream home, having a discussion, which has the power to make or break our marriage.

"Peter, answer me."

"At the time, I let people get into my head. I guess...I began to feed into the power."

She stares at me. Her gaze is unyielding. I can tell she isn't satisfied with how I answered but I am not going to elaborate more on this unless probed.

"So, it was your ego trip that allowed you to have sex with me, then go out and do the same with a prostitute?!"

"No, I never said that."

"But you did it! Didn't you?!"

She's fighting back tears budding her eyelids that I'm sure will overflow any second. Seeing them is a sucker punch to my gut. I rest my elbows onto the counter and lower my head, wracking my brain for the best way to respond.

"Peter."

This isn't a debate. She's not allowing an intermission to decide the best response. There isn't one. There will never be a best way to right this wrong.

I slowly lift my head and say: "No. I didn't."

She grips the edge of the countertop, her chest rising and falling as she heaves for a breath.

"Then why, Peter?" Her bottom lip starts to quiver. "Why did you cheat?"

A lone tear trickles down one of her cheeks as her hands continuously grasp the dark granite for support. Worse than shit is how I feel right now.

I did this. Her, now, it's my fault.

"Was I not enough for you?"

My head drops in defeat at the question. I can't be the sledgehammer that breaks what's left of my wife's heart.

"Alicia…"

"Answer me!"

How can we go down this path with fresh wounds still bleeding?

"I began working later hours. Some nights, after I got home, you were already sleeping. The times I reached out... you weren't in the mood. That continued on for months. I guess...it got to me."

She scoffs. "It got to you?"

Taking a breath, I lean upright. "Look, let's not go there again, alright?"

She wipes her nose with the sleeve of her shirt, her bloodshot eyes looking around the room, at anything but me. I know she hates me, hates I'm breathing the same air as her.

"Tell me one thing."

Tears are rolling down her cheeks now. Once again, I'm the one making her cry. Not the twenty-four-hour news channels that analyzed her image to the core or the voicemail she received every time she tried to phone her mother for solace.

No. It's me. Again.

The man who vowed to her nothing but happiness. If her father was alive today, I'm sure I wouldn't be standing here.

"Okay," I answer nervously.

"Was there anyone else?"

A heavy pause fills the room as her eyes penetrate my soul.

She lifts a fisted hand to cover her mouth, fighting to keep herself from losing it completely as if how I respond next, will be the death of her.

Memories flash through my mind of the young and exotic beauty of a private investigator I hired two years ago. Our working late one night, led to having a couple tequila shots, which eventually led to her head in my lap, ending in me taking her on my desk.

"No."

Her eyes meet mine, seeming to sense the whiff of my lie. I can't tell her this. I won't destroy what's left of her. The press is doing enough.

She lowers her balled hand from over her mouth and folds her arms across her chest. Her sniffles fill the room and echo off the quiet walls.

"No," I reaffirm. "There wasn't anyone else, Alicia."