The Broken Vows: Zane and Celeste’s Story (The Windsors)

I walk into the kitchen to find my wife standing behind the stove in one of my t-shirts, and fuck, it hits me then. This is what I always wanted, but it doesn’t feel the way I thought it would. Part of what made us who we were as a couple was our unwavering faith in each other, and when we lost that, we lost each other. It always felt like it was us against the world, but for the past few years, it’s been us against each other.

The few good years we shared don’t outweigh the bad. They never erased the torment I caused her when we were kids, and they won’t erase the pain she inflicted in return. Our love will always be tainted, fractured beyond repair, but never eradicated, not fully.

Celeste looks up when I walk in, her eyes finding mine. She smiles, and my heart skips a beat. Damn it. I think I’ll always react to her this way, and it hurts. It kills me to know I’ll never be able to move on from her. I doubt I’ll ever love anyone the way I loved her — not even her.

“Morning,” she murmurs, her gaze roaming over my body and settling on the tattoo on my chest. More than once in recent days, I’ve found her staring at it, her expression pensive. “I’m making you breakfast. Which toppings would you like on your waffles?”

I study her, unsure whether I should just walk out of the kitchen. With nearly two more years left in our marriage, I can’t avoid her forever, but looking at her hurts too much these days. “Strawberries,” I murmur, wishing I could just ignore her.

She nods and turns back to the stove, her long hair cascading down her back. She’s beautiful, and she knows exactly what she’s doing to me, standing there in my clothes. The kitchen has, for some odd reason, always been the one place I can’t resist her in. Perhaps it’s because it’s my favorite room in the house, and she’s always been my favorite person.

Celeste has been relentless lately, in a way I can’t even get mad about. Other than entering my home office at will, she never crosses any boundaries. She isn’t trying to force me to forgive her, and she isn’t exactly pestering me either. She’s just always there, with that look in her eyes that tells me she’ll do anything to prove how sorry she is.

Every day, she walks into our office with either a new bouquet of flowers or a new plant, each with a hidden meaning. Peach-colored roses to show her love and sincerity, deep purple hyacinths to show her commitment and ask for forgiveness, pink bluebells to tell me she’ll always love me, and cream carnations to portray hopes of renewed love. I taught her the meaning of each and every one of them, and I’m surprised she still remembers it all.

Does she remember I once told her my mother used to do this for my father? Dad once told me that Mom found it nearly impossible to apologize when she was wrong, so she’d give him flowers she grew herself, showing her sincerity instead. The fact that Celeste is doing something similar is enough to get past my defenses, and she knows it.

I sigh and run a hand through my hair, my heart squeezing painfully at the sight of her. It isn’t just at the office she’s quietly but steadfastly showing me she’ll work for my forgiveness, no matter how long it takes. She’s relentless in our bed, too. Part of me wants to believe her when she turns to me at night, her touch conveying her desperation. When she kisses me, everything fades away, until there’s nothing but her and the way she still wants me. It never lasts, though. By the time the sun begins to shine through our windows, I’m reminded why we fell apart in the first place, and fear grips me tightly. This too, won’t last.

“Here you go,” she says, smiling so fucking sweetly as she hands me a plate with heart-shaped waffles, strawberries and maple syrup on top. I stare at it for a moment, my heart wrenching. Being with her shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, but fuck, despite the pain, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

Her hand wraps around my arm, and I snap out of my daze as she pulls me toward the breakfast bar, her expression hopeful. Neither of us says a word as we have breakfast, yet the silence speaks volumes. I sigh as I drop my fork to my plate and move to get up the moment she’s done eating, but she grabs my hand and holds me in place. “Zane, didn’t we say we weren’t going to be unhappy anymore?”

I smile humorlessly as I turn back to face her. “But we both knew what that meant, didn’t we? It simply meant we were going to get through the remainder of our marriage without trying to hurt each other. It meant we’d try to make the best of a bad situation — no more, no less.” I take a step toward her and brush her hair out of her face. “Isn’t that what we’re doing, Celestial? There were no complaints on your lips when you begged me to fuck you harder last night, and we haven’t argued about work in weeks.”

Her gaze roams over my face, like she’s searching for a hint of something more. “Please,” she whispers. “Please tell me how to make things right.”

I remember asking her the same question years ago, except I hadn’t done anything requiring forgiveness. “You can’t, Celeste. I know it seems like I’m punishing you, but that isn’t it. There’s nothing to forgive, nothing you can do. This isn’t about the past, it’s about the future. I can’t trust that you won’t lose faith in me all over again the next time someone accuses me of something, and I don’t want to live with that kind of uncertainty. I don’t want to feel like what we have is precarious, and I can’t build any further on an unstable foundation.”

She tightens her grip on my hand and draws a shaky breath as she places her palm over my chest. “You said you’ve never lied to me, didn’t you? Does that mean that if I ask you a question right now, you’ll tell me the truth?”

I hesitate and nod involuntarily, my heart racing at the mere proximity of her. “I didn’t lie then, and I’m not about to start now.”

She takes a step closer and slides her hand up my chest and around the back of my neck, keeping my eyes on hers. “Then tell me, Zane. Do you still love me?”

I stare at her speechlessly, entirely thrown off by her question. She sighs and pulls me closer, until my forehead drops to hers, both of us breathing hard. “You do,” she answers for me. “You still love me, and that’s enough for me.”