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His Wife, His Mistake
Chapter Eighteen: Someone New
POV: Arya
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I couldn't keep waiting for a ghost.
That's what Damon had become — a shadow in my doorway, a whisper in my chest, a presence that never fully left.
But he wasn't here now.
And maybe he wasn't ever coming back.
So I did what I had to do.
I started trying to let go.
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It didn't come with a dramatic speech.
I didn't scream or cry or burn his letters.
I just woke up one morning and didn't look at the bench outside.
Not because I didn't want to.
But because I knew if I kept doing it, I'd never move forward.
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I put on my favorite linen blouse, the pale blue one Liam always said made me look "like the sky."
I braided my hair down my back and added just a little gloss to my lips — not for anyone else.
For me.
Because I needed to feel… alive again.
Like more than a woman waiting for forgiveness that might never come.
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The gallery was quiet that afternoon, sunlight pouring in through the front windows like melted gold.
I set up a new piece in the center display — a half-finished painting of a mother and child under a silver-leafed tree.
It felt honest. A little raw. A little broken.
Like me.
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That's when he came in.
Ethan Carter.
He'd been here before — once, maybe twice. A tall man in his mid-thirties, with soft brown eyes and a quiet way of existing, like he didn't need to fill the room to be noticed.
He always studied the paintings longer than most.
Today, he walked in with a single daffodil in his hand.
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"Is this for me?" I asked, forcing a small smile as he approached the front desk.
"It is," he said. "I figured you get tired of roses."
I blinked. "I don't get flowers often."
His eyes flicked to the corner. The bench. Empty.
"I find that hard to believe," he murmured.
I said nothing.
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Ethan held the flower out, and I took it without a word.
"Thank you," I said softly.
"My pleasure," he replied. "You looked like someone who needed a bit of yellow."
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He didn't linger.
Didn't flirt.
Didn't ask anything of me.
He just walked around the gallery, pausing in front of the silver tree painting.
There was something calming about him. Not invasive. Not loud.
Just… present.
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When he left, he turned at the door.
"Your art makes people feel things they don't always want to admit," he said.
I raised an eyebrow. "Is that a compliment or a warning?"
He smiled. "Both."
Then he walked out.
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That night, I didn't dream of Damon.
I dreamed of silver leaves. Of soft voices. Of daffodils blooming in winter.
It didn't erase the pain.
But it softened the edges.
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Liam noticed the flower the next morning.
He touched the yellow petals gently. "Where did this come from?"
"A friend," I said, placing it in a small glass jar.
He tilted his head. "You smiled more yesterday."
"Did I?"
He nodded.
I didn't tell him why.
I wasn't sure I even knew.
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Ethan came again the next day.
And the day after that.
Never pushing. Never asking. Just stopping by, admiring art, dropping off a cup of chamomile tea or a flower or a short comment about the piece I was working on.
"You don't have to do this," I told him once.
"I know," he said. "But I want to."
Simple.
No expectations.
And maybe that's what made it harder.
Because part of me wanted to want someone new.
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I found myself laughing at his jokes.
Telling him small things — about Westbrook, about Liam's obsession with blue crayons, about how I used to dance barefoot in college.
He listened.
Really listened.
Not like he was waiting to speak.
Just like he wanted to understand me.
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And one day, after he left, I realized something.
I hadn't thought about Damon for almost two hours.
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It hit me like a wave.
Not guilt.
Not betrayal.
But surprise.
Because maybe I was finally beginning to breathe without holding onto the past.
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That night, I sat on the couch, the daffodil still fresh in its jar.
Liam had fallen asleep with one of his books, curled like a kitten on the rug.
And for the first time in weeks… the silence wasn't unbearable.
It was still.
Peaceful.
Soft.
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But that didn't mean my heart didn't ache.
It did.
Because even now — even after Ethan and his kindness — I still loved Damon.
I probably always would.
But maybe loving someone didn't mean you had to wait for them forever.
Maybe loving them meant you let them go.
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Next Chapter Tease:
Damon sees Arya laughing through the gallery window… and she's not alone. For the first time, he feels what she did four years ago — replaced. Forgotten. And it hurts more than he's ready for.