#brokenvows

Fractured Pieces - From the Broken Vows series

The dining table is a battlefield of school supplies.

Pencils roll dangerously close to the edge, erasers are scattered across the wooden surface, and Nora’s workbook is flipped open to a page she’s half-heartedly working on. You already know how this will end—she’ll finish her assignment, push her chair back, and run off without a second glance at the mess.

Then, you’ll call her back. She’ll groan. You’ll ask again. She’ll groan louder. You’ll threaten no screen time. She’ll sigh dramatically and say, 'Mom, in a minute! I’m playing.'

You already know the script.

Right now, though, she’s pretending to concentrate, tongue poking out slightly as she grips a red pencil and presses it into the paper a little too hard. You watch her from across the table, chin resting on your hand.

"Nora, careful. You’re going to rip the page."

She loosens her grip but doesn’t look up. "I know."

You hide a smile. She’s stubborn, just like her other mom.

For a few blissful moments, the only sound is the faint scratch of her pencil against paper. It’s peaceful, almost.

Then—

"Mom?"

There’s something about the way she says it that makes you pause.

"Yeah, baby?"

She finally lifts her head, eyes wide, brows scrunched together in that serious way that makes her look too grown for her little face.

"Why isn’t Mama here anymore?"

The question slams into your chest like a freight train.

You choke. Literally choke. Air catches in your throat, and for a second, all you can do is blink at her, heart pounding.

"What do you mean, baby?" You force a smile, keeping your voice light. "Mama’s always here."

Nora’s lips press together in a tight line. She’s not buying it.

"No, she’s not. You don’t sleep in the same bed anymore."

Your stomach twists.

"Abi said you and Mama are breaking up. She said that’s what happens when parents don’t love each other anymore."

Your jaw clenches.

"Abi said that?"

Nora nods, playing with the corner of her workbook. "Yeah. Her parents don’t live together anymore, so she knows stuff. She said first you stop sleeping in the same room, then one moves out, and then… then they don’t love each other anymore."

There’s an ache in your chest so sharp it’s hard to breathe.

"Sweetheart," you start gently, reaching across the table to brush a curl from her face. "That’s not what’s happening, okay?"

Nora’s nose scrunches. "Then why doesn’t Mama sleep here?"

You hesitate—too long. She notices.

"She just… needed to stay closer to training and the city for a little while," you lie.

It’s a bad lie. Even you don’t believe it.

"Then why can’t we live there too?"

You open your mouth, then close it again.

"Because… her apartment is small. It wouldn’t fit all of our stuff, would it?"

Nora stares at you. Unblinking.

"But it’s just for now," you add quickly, too quickly.

She tilts her head, eyes narrowing like she’s trying to work out a puzzle with missing pieces. You can see the gears turning in her little head, the doubt creeping in.

You swallow. This is going to come back and bite you. You know it will.

After a long moment, she looks down, dragging a finger over the edge of the page.

"Is it going to take long?" she asks quietly. "For her to come back?"

Your heart shatters.

"No, baby," you whisper, stroking her hair. "It’s going to pass faster than you think."

She doesn’t look up. She doesn’t believe you. You don’t either.

"I miss her," she murmurs. "Iris misses her too."

Your throat tightens.

"I know," you say, and it’s the most honest thing you’ve said all night.

She doesn’t push anymore. Just nods, picks up her pencil, and goes back to her homework. But the mood has shifted. There’s a weight in the air that wasn’t there before.

You glance at the clock. It’s late.

"Finish this last part, and then we’ll clean up, okay?" you say, trying to steady yourself.

"Can’t you do it?" she groans.

"Nope." You stand, stretching. "Your homework, your responsibility."

She huffs, slumping over the table dramatically. "Ugh. Fine."

You don’t answer, already walking toward the kitchen, heart still pounding. You grab the baby monitor, checking the screen. Iris is curled up in her bed upstairs, one tiny fist resting against her cheek.

She’s been clinging to you more than ever lately. So much so that even her naps are restless unless she knows you’re nearby.

You exhale slowly.

Maybe therapy wouldn’t be a bad idea. For them. For you.

Your phone sits on the counter, screen dark now, but you remember the morning—

Alexia had called earlier, just after breakfast. You had picked up.

"Hey," she had said, voice careful, almost too soft. "I wanted to talk about Nora’s birthday. What are we getting her?"

You kept your voice even. "She wants a new bike. Says her old one is too small now."

"Yeah, I remember her saying that," Alexia murmured. There was a pause, then— "Do you want to pick it out together?"

You blinked, caught off guard. That wasn’t what you expected.

"Uh… if you want."

"I think we should," she said, her voice careful. "I mean… it’s her birthday. We should do this together."

The words made your stomach twist. They were reasonable. Too reasonable. Like she was trying too hard to sound normal.

You hesitated. You didn’t want to do this with her. But you had to.

"Yeah," you said finally. "Okay."

"Okay," she echoed, softer this time. Then, "And what else? What should we get her?"

You exhaled slowly, pressing two fingers against your temple. "She’s been asking for more art supplies. I was thinking of putting together a little kit."

"That’s a good idea," Alexia said. Then, after a beat, "Maybe we can pick those out together too?"

There was something about the way she said it. Careful. Testing the waters.

You didn’t want to. Not really.

"If you want."

"I do."

Silence stretched between you, long enough that you could hear your own pulse in your ears.

"How is she?" Alexia asked. "And Iris?"

"They’re good," you said, even though good wasn’t the right word.

Another pause.

"And you?"

The question felt dangerous. Too close to something you weren’t willing to touch.

"I’m fine," you answered, because anything else would be too much.

Alexia hesitated again, like she was on the verge of saying something more.

"Can I pick you up tomorrow morning? We can go together."

Your stomach twisted again, this time sharper. No. That was your first instinct. But then you thought about Nora, about the way she still checked the front door at night, as if hoping Alexia might walk through it.

"I’ll drive there," you said instead. "We can meet at the mall."

There was a slight pause before she responded, hesitant. "Okay."

You swallowed hard.

A million thoughts raced through your mind, all leading to the same realization—tomorrow, you’d have to see her. Spend time with her. Go through the motions.

You weren’t ready. But you’d do it anyway.

For Nora. For Iris.

Fake words, fake oaths, fake nod and fake smiles,

Fake relations and fake emotions were shown  in your eyes.

As fake as your promises that left me in the aisle,

Due to extensive conflicts that split our promised mile.

What a wonderful story? A wonderful surprise!

Surprise that wasn’t funny and brought tears into my eyes.

Your little joke of bomb, explodes in my heart,

Spreading thorns in my body, like a pointed, sharp dart.

Peculiar goodbyes darken my snowy wedding gown,

A farewell which  caused the mascara in my face to flow down.

Everything was unusual, unusual cries and shouts,

Freeing myself from the aches of the coming fall outs.

This bouquet of flowers were as dull as the body of yours,

My red trembling lips, were as bloody as your coat.

My tears burst out along with my curse,

Echoes of Us - From the Broken Vows series

The alarm shatters the silence, yanking you from restless sleep. It cuts deep, burrowing into your skull, dragging you into the kind of morning that already feels too heavy.

You groan, rolling onto your side. The sheets beneath your fingers are cold.

Cold. Empty.

Your stomach knots.

Three months.

You should be used to it by now, the way her absence has settled into the mattress, into the quiet of the house, into you. But some things don’t fade. They just change, reshaping themselves into something dull and persistent, like an ache in a muscle you’ve learned to ignore.

With a sharp exhale, you push yourself upright. Your temples throb, the headache spreading like ink beneath your skull. Too much wine. Again. It lingers in your mouth, dry and bitter.

The house is still. Too still.

No footsteps. No distant hum of a shower running. No sound of a voice calling your name from the kitchen, teasing and warm, already making plans for the day.

You move slowly, feet bare against the cool floor as you shuffle downstairs. The air smells faintly of lavender—leftover from the candle you forgot to blow out last night—but it’s empty otherwise. No trace of her.

Your pajama top hangs loosely over your frame, one sleeve slipping down your shoulder as step in the kitchen. The dim morning light filters through the windows, catching the edges of the marble counters, the gleaming faucet, Alexia’s untouched mug still sitting on the top shelf.

You don’t bother moving it. Not yet.

Instead, you go through the motions.

Yogurt and fruit for Iris. A smoothie for Nora. Coffee for yourself—black. You pour it slowly, watching the steam curl toward the ceiling, inhaling the scent. Dark. Sharp.

It used to be comforting.

Now it’s just… routine.

The silence presses in, thick and suffocating.

Until—

A door upstairs slams.

You barely brace yourself before—

"MOM!"

Nora bursts into the kitchen, all limbs and urgency, her hair an absolute disaster, her socks mismatched, her Barcelona shorts twisted at the waistband. She’s already mid-sentence, words tumbling over each other like they can’t wait to get out.

"Did you wash my shin guards? Because last time you forgot, and Coach said—"

"Yes, Nora," you interrupt, rubbing your temple. "They’re in your bag."

She doesn’t even acknowledge it, already laser-focused on the iPad waiting on the counter.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

You don’t need to ask who she’s calling.

The familiar ringing fills the space.

You stir your eggs, pretending this doesn’t feel like a tiny betrayal.

A soft shuffle behind you. Small, hesitant steps. Iris stands at the edge of the room, drowning in her pajamas, hair wild from sleep. She blinks at you, fists rubbing at her sleepy eyes, quiet and expectant.

You set the spoon down and walk toward her. Bend low, arms open. She melts into you immediately.

Warm. Small. Yours.

You scoop her up, feel her settle against you, feel the soft sigh she exhales into the crook of your shoulder. She clings, tiny fingers curled in your shirt, the way she always does when she doesn’t want something—just wants you.

Then—

"Hola, mi bebé."

Alexia’s voice filters through the speaker.

"MAMAAAA!"

Nora practically vibrates with excitement, her feet kicking beneath the counter as she grins into the screen.

"Are you coming to my game today?"

"I’ll try, bebé," she says, voice smooth, careful. "Mom has a game too, and it might run late."

A scoff escapes before you can stop it. Loud. Unmistakable.

Alexia hears it.

Her gaze flickers.

"Is your mom there?"

"She is, Mama. You could come later."

A pause. A hesitation.

"I’ll try to make it to the game. If not, I’ll come over. Can I talk to Mom?"

Nora doesn’t wait for your answer before shoving the iPad toward you.

And there she is. Staring at you through the screen.

Alexia’s face is unreadable. Hair tied back, skin still glistening from practice, her Barcelona kit clinging to her like it was made for her. The sweat along her collarbone catches the morning light.

She looks too good.

Your fingers tighten around the device.

"Hi," you manage, careful.

"Hi," Alexia replies, just as careful. Her eyes flicker, scanning your face, the tired set of your mouth.

"How are you, baby?"

That word.

Baby.

"Fine."

She nods. "I’m good too."

Didn’t ask, Alexia.

You shift, pressing your lips to Iris’s hair. “Aren’t you going to say hi to Mama, baby?”

Iris hesitates. Then—quietly, almost imperceptibly—shrinks further into you.

Alexia’s jaw tightens.

"I’ll try to make it up to her later."

You let out a short breath, sharp and cold. "If you come."

It slips out before you can stop it.

Alexia flinches.

Nora, oblivious, barrels ahead. "Mommy, can we have ice cream? Or pizza?"

"I’ll see, okay, bebé?"

"Okay. Te amo mucho."

"Te amo mucho también."

The call ends.

Nora launches into a ramble about the game—how Coach Ellison, the new coach, says headers are important, how she thinks she might finally be better than Cleo, how Ellison is so cool—

"Did you know she played in the US? And she knows like, everything? Like, the other day she told us—"

You tune her out.

Your mind is still stuck on Alexia.

Her games don’t run that late.

Maybe she just doesn’t want to come.

And Eva—

You told her to fire her. Begged her.

Did she?

Iris sniffs, curling further into your chest.

Then—suddenly—she’s crying.

Quiet. But certain.

You press a kiss to her temple, breathing her in.

"You wanna come to Nora’s game, baby?"

A tiny nod.

That’s settled.

A few hours pass in a blur of routine. You braid Nora’s hair the way she likes it—tight, neat, not a single strand out of place. She’s always particular about that. Her uniform is crisp, cleats laced tight. She bounces on the balls of her feet as you double-check her bag.

Iris is easier. A quick change into something warm enough for the cooling afternoon, a light jacket zipped up, curls tamed as best as they can be. She lets you fuss over her, still slow with sleep, still attached to your side.

By the time you pull up to the field, the sun hangs lower in the sky, stretching golden light over the grass.

Nora doesn’t wait.

The second the car door unlocks, she’s off. Legs pumping, sprinting like she’s playing a Champions League final.

You shake your head.

"Nora, chill. This is not the World Cup."

She barely glances back, waving you off as she dashes toward her team.

You sigh, adjusting Iris against your hip as you shut the car door.

The field is already packed—kids warming up, parents scattered across the sidelines, the familiar buzz of pre-game energy in the air.

Your eyes skim the crowd and land on Evelyn.

Nora’s best friend’s mom.

Tall. Blonde. Dressed like she has nowhere better to be than a luxury brunch.

And already waving dramatically in your direction.

“Hiiiiiiii, girl.”

You brace yourself.

Evelyn is always a lot. Always talking too loud, always in everyone’s business. But at least she’s nice. And—most importantly—you can trust her.

She gives you a once-over, letting out a low whistle. “Damn, you always look so put together. I swear, if I had two kids and your drama, I’d be out here in sweatpants every day.”

You huff out a short laugh. “Tempting.”

"How are you?"

"So good. I need to update you on everything happening at school. The drama, the mess, the PTA fights—"

You tilt your head, amused. “Sounds fun.”

“Oh, it is.” She smirks, then eyes you curiously. “And you? How are you?”

The way she says it tells you she knows exactly what she’s asking.

You keep your answer simple. “Good too.”

Iris starts to sniff, rubbing her face against your shoulder. You adjust your grip, bouncing her lightly.

"I’m grabbing a seat. Catch up later?"

Evelyn waves you off. “Yeah, I’ll find you.”

You weave through the crowd, eyes scanning for an open spot near the front. The metal bleachers are cold beneath you when you settle down, Iris shifting in your lap, the scent of fresh-cut grass thick in the air.

The whistle blows.

The game starts fast.

The sounds wrap around you—shouts, quick commands, the rhythmic thud of the ball against cleats.

Nora is electric. Sharp, quick, precise. The way she moves—the confidence in it—makes something swell in your chest.

She scores twice.

Arms flung into the air, face split into a blinding grin.

Iris watches, eyes wide, tiny hands gripping your shirt. She doesn’t say much, just absorbs it all, a quiet kind of awe settling over her. But when Nora scores, she claps—small hands smacking together, face lighting up like she understands, like she knows.

You press a kiss to her temple.

The final whistle cuts through the air.

A wave of cheers follows, kids scattering across the field, their leftover adrenaline pushing them in every direction.

Iris tugs at your hand, shifting from foot to foot.

You smooth a hand over her hair. “You did so good sitting through that, baby. Did you like it?”

She shrugs, watching Nora dart between her teammates, glowing with victory. Then—hesitantly—she nods.

You smile.

Small victories.

The game is over, but the kids are still on the field, running wild, their laughter cutting through the crisp evening air. The sky is painted in soft hues of orange and pink, the last traces of daylight stretching thin over the horizon.

Parents linger by the bleachers, chatting in loose circles, but you make your way down toward the field, scanning for Nora.

“Nora,” you call, spotting her darting across the grass with Evelyn’s daughter. “Come on, baby, we need to go.”

She groans dramatically, slowing to a jog, hair wild from the game, cheeks flushed with exertion. “One more minute?” she pleads, breathless.

Before you can answer, Evelyn materializes at your side.

"You need to meet the new coach," she says, eyes gleaming. "Did you see her?"

"Nora mentioned her."

Evelyn tsks, looping her arm through yours. "That’s why I love you. You never know what’s going on."

Then she smirks.

"Look, there she is."

Your gaze flickers toward the sideline.

And there she is.

Coach Ellison.

Tall. Sharp features. Green eyes that cut through distance. A blue baseball cap shading her face, but not enough to hide the way her mouth quirks at the corners.

Your breath catches.

"Okay," you murmur.

Evelyn snorts. "Okay? That’s all?"

“She’s the coach.”

“Yeah, right. She can coach me any day of the week.”

You shake your head, adjusting Iris as she starts to squirm. “I should grab Nora.”

But before you can move, Evelyn’s grip tightens. "Oh! Wait. You should meet her."

You frown. "Eve—"

Too late.

Ellison turns just as you stop in front of her. Her gaze flicks between you and Evelyn, something unreadable passing through her expression.

Evelyn grins. "Coach, this is Nora’s mom."

Ellison’s eyes lock onto yours.

She smiles.

Not polite. Not empty.

Something else.

"Nice to meet you," she says smoothly.

Your fingers twitch.

"You too."

Her gaze flicks over you—quick, unassuming, but enough.

"Nora adores you."

A smirk tugs at her lips.

"Oh? Good to know I’m doing something right."

Your lips twitch.

Then—

"She’s single, by the way," Evelyn throws in, casual as a grenade.

Your stomach drops.

"No, I’m not," you snap.

Evelyn snorts.

"Yes, she is."

Ellison’s smirk deepens.

It’s light. Playful. But there’s something under it. Something that lingers.

Before you can respond—

Your phone vibrates.

You glance down.

Alexia.

The air shifts—heavy, cold.

Ellison watches you, gaze flicking to the name on your screen, then back up to your face.

The smirk is gone.

You swallow.

"I—" You step back, gripping your phone. "I have to take this."

Ellison nods. Doesn’t ask.

"See you around," she says simply.

You don’t answer. You just turn away, focus on getting the girls to the car, needing the space to breathe.

Nora groans when you tell her it’s time to go, dragging her feet, eyes pleading. You brace yourself for the meltdown, already picturing the whines, the pout, the bargaining—until you mention Alexia.

"Remember? Mama said she was probably coming over after. We need to be home to wait for her."

Nora straightens immediately. "Okay."

Crisis averted.

You buckle Iris into her seat, waiting for her to settle before you slide into the driver’s side. The moment you’re in, your fingers hover over the steering wheel before pressing call.

Alexia picks up on the first ring.

"Sorry I couldn’t answer before, it was crazy at the game. You’re on speaker," you say, adjusting the volume.

"Mama, I won!" Nora screams from the backseat.

"Congratulations, bebe!" Alexia’s voice warms through the line. "So, I think I’m picking up the pizza, right?"

"Yes, yes, yessss," Nora chants.

You glance at Iris in the rearview mirror. Still asleep. You lower your voice. "Nora, stop. You’re going to wake your sister."

She huffs, but quiets.

Alexia laughs. "Ice cream too, then?"

"Yeah, that’s fine."

"Okay. See you soon."

The call ends.

You exhale, gripping the wheel as you drive.

After a few minutes, that feel like hours, the garage door hums shut behind the car, the quiet finality of it making your stomach clench. You exhale slowly, resting your head back against the seat for just a second—just enough to breathe. To collect yourself.

Then—

Click.

Nora is already unbuckling her seatbelt, bouncing in place, her whole body practically vibrating with excitement.

“Mama is bringing pizza!” she squeals, as if she’s just now remembered. “And ice cream! Mom, can I get a soda too?”

“You know the rules,” you murmur, but there’s no real fight in your voice.

She groans, dragging her head back dramatically before pushing the door open and sprinting into the house. You shake your head, lips twitching despite yourself.

You sigh, shaking your head, before turning to the backseat. Iris is half-asleep, her tiny body slumped against the seat. Gently, you unbuckle her and lift her into your arms. She stirs slightly but doesn’t wake, her warm little arms curling instinctively around your neck.

Inside, the house is calm, the contrast almost jarring after the noise of the field. You carry Iris upstairs, carefully tucking her into bed. She shifts, her tiny fingers grasping at the blanket, and for a moment, you pause, watching her peaceful face.

Downstairs, Nora is sprawled on the couch, eyes glued to the TV. You move through the kitchen, setting the table, the mundane actions grounding you—at least, until the doorbell rings.

It’s fast. Too fast.

Before you can react, Nora is already up, sprinting toward the door.

"Finally!"

Alexia steps inside, carrying a pizza box in one hand and ice cream in the other. She barely has time to set the pizza box down before Nora throws herself into her arms, squeezing her tight.

“I missed you,” she mumbles into Alexia’s jacket.

Alexia laughs, adjusting her grip on the food to hold her properly. "Bebé, I picked you up from school yesterday."

"Yeah, but it feels like ages.”

You stand there, motionless, just watching.

Alexia shifts, catching your gaze over the top of Nora’s head. And for a moment—just a moment—her face softens.

You swallow, turning away. "The pizza is getting cold."

She’s wearing a Barcelona jacket over a fitted shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Simple. Effortless. Still, she makes it look infuriatingly good.

She sets the food on the table before turning to you.

"Hi."

Your throat tightens. You don’t know what to do with your hands, your body, yourself.

"Hey," you manage, voice more clipped than you intend.

Alexia watches you for a second, then shifts.

"Where’s Iris?"

"Upstairs," you say, moving a plate slightly just to give yourself something to do. "She was sleeping. I didn’t want to wake her."

"Want me to bring her down?"

You nod. "Yeah."

She brushes past you, and for a second, just a second, her fingers graze your waist—light, barely there, but enough.

Enough to make your stomach flip. Enough to make you hate that it still happens.

Dinner is a blur.

It’s easy, but only because Nora fills every available space with words. She barely pauses to breathe, recounting every moment of her game, every little detail she can remember. Iris is tucked at Alexia’s side, still drowsy but eating quietly.

You sit there. Pick at the crust of a pizza slice. Try not to let your hands shake.

Alexia keeps looking at you. Not obviously, but enough. Enough that you feel it pressing into your skin.

Then—

"Mama, can you help me sleep tonight?" Nora asks, already tugging at Alexia’s sleeve.

Alexia smiles. "Of course."

She stands, taking Iris with her, and they disappear upstairs. The second they’re gone, you exhale sharply.

Finally.

You reach for a wine glass, pouring yourself a generous amount, fingers tightening around the stem.

You take a slow sip. Another.

Upstairs, a door creaks softly, followed by the quiet murmur of Alexia’s voice—low, soothing. The rustle of blankets, a whispered goodnight. Footsteps move down the hall, steady, unhurried.

She steps into the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, expression unreadable. The weight of her presence fills the room, heavy and suffocating.

"You didn’t eat," she says, her voice soft but pointed.

You glance over at the half-eaten meal on the table, the uneaten food mocking you. Your stomach tightens, but it’s not hunger. It’s something else entirely, something you can’t swallow down.

"I had some," you reply, setting your glass down with a sharp clink.

"Barely," she presses, her gaze never leaving you.

You shake your head, pushing the frustration down. "Why do you care?"

It comes out too quickly, sharper than you intended. You watch as something flickers in Alexia’s eyes—a flash of hurt, of regret—but it disappears before you can fully register it.

"You know why," she says quietly, but the words hit like an accusation, like a reminder of everything that’s gone wrong.

Your fingers tighten around the countertop, your breath hitching. You exhale slowly, trying to keep control, but it slips. "Do I?"

Alexia rubs the back of her neck, the exhaustion lining her face. She looks tired, worn down in ways you hadn’t expected. But you push that thought away.

"You should eat something," she says again, voice softer now.

You turn, the frustration bubbling over. "Jesus, Alexia," you mutter, your tone sharp. "You show up, play house for an hour, and now you want to tell me what to do?"

"That’s not what I’m doing," she insists, her voice calm but firm.

"Really? Because it sure feels like it."

She sighs, looking up at the ceiling, as if trying to steady herself.

"Why are you really here, Alexia?" The words come out strained, a plea buried in the harshness.

A long pause.

"I wanted to see the girls." Her voice cracks slightly, as if it costs her something to say it.

You nod slowly, trying to keep your face neutral. "Right. And now that they’re asleep, what? You stick around for what, exactly?"

Alexia doesn’t answer right away, her eyes drifting over you. She’s searching for something, but you’re not sure what.

You shake your head, frustration leaking out. "That’s not fair, Alexia."

"I know." Her voice is quieter now, a confession in itself.

The silence between you stretches, thick and suffocating. The hum of the refrigerator is the only sound, the TV in the other room a faint murmur.

You find yourself staring at her lips, a small movement—she licks them, almost absentmindedly. Your pulse quickens, and you swallow hard, gripping the edge of the counter like it’s the only thing holding you upright.

"Did you fire her?"

Alexia freezes. The room goes still. Her breath comes slow, measured, like she’s bracing for impact. Then she exhales, rubbing a hand down her face.

"She was moved." Her voice is quiet, heavy.

You stare at her. "Moved?"

Alexia nods, eyes flicking to the side. "They transferred her to another department—less contact with the players."

Your stomach twists, something ugly curling in your chest. "So, she still works there?"

Her jaw tightens. She doesn’t answer.

"You think I didn’t try to fire her?" she finally says. Her voice is low, strained.

"Then why is she still there?"

Alexia presses her lips together, looking away like she doesn’t want to say it. She swallows hard. "The club wanted a reason. They wanted to know why."

It hits you all at once. The weight of it, the pathetic cowardice. "And you couldn’t tell them."

She shuts her eyes for half a second, then looks at the floor. "I—" She stops herself, shakes her head. "It wasn’t that simple."

You let out a sharp breath, something bitter burning in your throat. "It was simple, Alexia. You just didn’t want to say it."

Her eyes flash, something raw and defensive beneath the exhaustion. "You think it was that easy?" Her voice is quiet but strained, like she's holding something back. "You think I could just walk into their office and say, ‘I slept with her, now fire her’?"

"You should have," you snap, the words cutting through the thick air between you.

Alexia exhales sharply, raking a hand through her hair. "And then what? Have it become a headline? Have everyone looking at me like—" She stops herself, jaw clenching. "It wasn’t just about me."

Your chest tightens. "No, it was about protecting her."

She shakes her head, frustration flickering across her face. "It was about protecting everything. The team. The season. The girls—"

"Don’t," you cut in, voice sharp. "Don’t act like this was some noble sacrifice. You protected yourself, Alexia. You let her stay because admitting what you did—saying it out loud—would have meant facing it."

Her hands curl into fists at her sides. She opens her mouth, then closes it. No excuses. No defense. Just silence.

A slow, suffocating weight settles in your chest, thick and suffocating.

"You’re a fucking coward."

Alexia’s lips part, her whole body tensing like she wants to fight back, like she wants to explain—but nothing comes. She just stands there, her breathing uneven, her eyes heavy with something you don’t want to name.

You can’t do this.

Not tonight.

Your fingers tighten around the neck of the wine bottle as you turn sharply on your heel, your feet carrying you toward the stairs before you can think better of it. You don’t look back, but you hear her footsteps—hesitant at first, then more certain as she follows.

"Where are you going?"

Her voice is right behind you, close enough that you can feel it, like the heat of a flame licking at your spine.

You don’t answer. You just keep moving.

"I don’t want to talk."

"But I do." There's a sharpness to her voice now, frustration bleeding through. "Why can’t we talk like normal, functional adults?"

You stop. Your breath is unsteady, hands clenched so tight your nails bite into your palms. When you turn, she’s right there, too close, eyes searching yours like she’s desperate for something—an opening, a crack in the wall you’ve put between you.

"Because we’re not normal, Alexia." Your voice is quieter now, but no less sharp. "And we sure as hell aren’t functional."

The moment you step into the bedroom, the air feels different—heavier, like it’s thick with memories you don’t want to face. The faint scent of Alexia’s perfume lingers in the sheets, in the air, in your skin, like an ache you can’t wash away.

You set the bottle down on the nightstand with more force than necessary, the glass clinking sharply against the wood. Your hands move before your mind catches up—you pull at the buttons of your shirt, shedding the weight of the day, of the conversation, of her.

Alexia doesn’t stop at the doorway. She follows, closing the door behind her. "You shouldn’t be drinking like this."

You scoff, shaking your head as you pull the fabric from your shoulders. "And you shouldn’t have fucked someone else, but here we are."

She exhales sharply, doesn’t leave.

Your hands move to your closet door, pushing it open. The space is pristine, everything in its place—your shoes lined up in neat rows, designer heels alongside sneakers, your handbags displayed on glass shelves like artifacts in a museum. The scent of leather and cedarwood lingers in the air, blending with the faint, familiar notes of Alexia’s cologne clinging to the jackets she never took with her. The dim, recessed lighting casts a warm glow over the polished marble floors, the gold fixtures gleaming under it.

Alexia lingers, watching you.

You say, while pulling out a set of pajamas. "You can leave." Every muscle in your body is coiled so tight you feel like you might snap.

Alexia looks at you, eyes dark and unreadable, lips parted like she wants to say more. Like she wants to close the distance between you and fix something.

Instead, she rubs a hand down her face, and then—

"I’m sleeping in Nora’s room."

It takes a second for the words to register.

Your pulse stutters. Your fingers tighten against the dresser.

"You’re what?"

Alexia swallows, shifting on her feet, her jaw tight. "I’m staying in Nora’s room tonight."

A slow, disbelieving laugh forces its way out of you. It’s humorless, sharp at the edges. "You think you get to do that?"

"She’ll want me there."

Your stomach twists violently.

You step forward before you can stop yourself, rage flickering dangerously beneath your skin.

"You don’t just get to fucking decide that," you snap. "You don’t get to show up, say what you need to say, and then plant yourself in this house like nothing happened."

Alexia’s expression hardens, but there’s something desperate in the way she holds herself. "She’s my daughter too."

"And whose fault is it that you’re not in this house anymore?"

Her jaw tightens, her nostrils flare, but she doesn’t have an answer.

You shake your head, biting down so hard on the inside of your cheek you taste blood.

"Go home, Alexia," you mutter.

Alexia stays still.

You step back, shaking your head again. "I mean it."

After a long, tense beat, she exhales, looking down. "I’ll leave in the morning."

You press your lips together so tightly it hurts.

"Whatever."

You turn away before she can see the way your throat tightens, before she can catch the flicker of something shattered in your expression.

The bedroom door clicks shut behind you.

Fruit from the Poisoned Tree - From the Broken Vows series

You are in the bathtub, drinking wine like your life isn’t actively falling apart.

You’re a little drunk.

No, a lot drunk.

Drunk enough that the warm water feels like an emotional support blanket, like if you just sink a little deeper, let the wine hit a little harder, maybe—just maybe—you won’t feel like your entire existence is circling the drain.

Iris and Nora are with Alexia tonight.

It’s strange—how silence can feel heavier than noise, how an empty house can press down on your chest more than the chaos ever did. You should be grateful for the break, for the uninterrupted moment to yourself, but the stillness isn’t comforting. It’s suffocating.

You could go out. Call Evelyn. Pretend you’re 26 again. Stumble into some club, let some stranger press their hands on your waist, let yourself feel wanted for a few hours.

Maybe you should.

Maybe next time, that’s exactly what you’ll do.

But for now—this? This is enough.

You swipe mindlessly through Instagram, the glow of the screen blurring slightly in your wine-drenched vision, until a thought slams into you like a head-on collision.

Eva.

You’ve been so consumed with everything else—taking care of the kids, surviving this never-ending shitstorm, trying not to completely lose it—that you never stopped to wonder:

What does she look like?

Is she pretty? Prettier than you?

Surely not.

But still—you need to see.

You go to Alexia’s profile, pull up her following list, and type: Eva.

Nothing.

Okay, at least she’s a little smart.

You try Jana’s.

Nothing.

Barcelona’s official account?

Still nothing.

For fuck’s sake. You are finding this woman.

Your fingers fly across the screen, jumping from profile to profile like some deranged detective, spiraling through mutuals and tagged photos until—there.

Eva. Doctor. Sports Medicine Specialist.

More like a homewrecking specialist.

Her profile is open.

Thank god. You really do thank god, because if you had to call Evelyn and get her to follow Eva just to gain access, you’d rather set yourself on fire. Not that Evelyn wouldn’t do it—she’d probably be thrilled—but you do not have the patience for her dramatics tonight.

Your stomach twists as you scroll.

She’s… pretty.

Not model-gorgeous, not someone who’d stop traffic or get cast in a perfume ad. Just… normal pretty. The kind of woman you’d see at a café and not think twice about—until she opens her mouth and destroys your family.

Her smile is wide, her hair is pretty. There are pictures of her with dogs. Pictures of her on vacation, laughing with friends.

Just a normal, pretty woman who fucked your wife.

Fucking. Bitch.

You sink lower into the bath, scowling at your phone. It’s not that you don’t think you’re attractive—you know you are—but you were at least hoping she’d be ugly. Just a little. Some weird nose, bad teeth, anything.

Instead, you’re staring at someone so average it makes you want to scream.

How the fuck does she sleep at night?

You like her most recent picture.

Let her see it. Let her feel the chill creep up her spine when she notices your name. Let her wonder what the fuck is going through your head.

Your pulse is still pounding when a new thought slithers into your wine-soaked brain.

Ellison.

Nora’s coach.

Why the hell are you thinking about her?

Maybe because she’s new. Maybe because she’s kind of cute.

You shake your head, scoffing at yourself, but your fingers are already moving.

Where do you even look? Nora’s team Instagram?

Bingo.

Ellie Mercer.

Former player. U.S. National Team.

Huh. So she actually had a career.

Her account is private.

Not all is a win.

You hit request follow anyway, the little requested button practically mocking you.

Are you insane?

Yes.

You should put your phone down. You should get out of the tub, wrap yourself in a towel, drink some water—maybe stop acting like a woman on the brink of a

Instead, you sit there, half-daring, half-dreading the possibility that Ellie Mercer might accept your request right now.

Wouldn’t that be something?

One tap and you could see everything.

What does she even post? Gym selfies? Some motivational bullshit about hard work and determination?

Does she have someone? A girlfriend? A wife?

Why the fuck does that thought make your stomach twist?

God, you need to get a grip.

But you’re not ready to let it go.

So you keep scrolling.

It’s stupid.

And then you see it.

Posted just a few hours ago.

A picture.

Alexia.

And it’s bad. The kind of bad that makes your breath catch in your throat, that makes your fingers tighten on your phone like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

She looks too good—perfect, radiant, like something out of a fever dream. The tight lines of her body, the way her hair falls loose and messy around her shoulders, like she’s barely trying.

Heat unfurls low in your stomach, curling between your legs. Your entire body reacts before your mind can catch up.

Your fingers hover over the screen. You should stop. You could keep scrolling. You should keep scrolling.

But you don’t.

You let yourself look, let the image burn itself into your mind. You let your breath stutter and your chest tighten as your body responds the way it always does when it comes to her.

Heat licks up your spine, sinking deeper, lower, twisting through you in that familiar, treacherous way. You shift in the water, your thighs pressing together, a low ache starting to pulse through you.

Fuck her.

Fuck her for still doing this to you.

Your fingers twitch against the screen. You know exactly where this is going.

You shouldn’t.

You really, really shouldn’t.

But you do.

Your free hand slips beneath the water, finding the warmth there—nothing compared to the heat burning through you now. Your skin is already too sensitive, your pulse erratic, your breath uneven as your hand moves lower, searching for release.

God, you hate her. You hate how effortlessly she still owns you. How, even after everything, your body betrays you the second it remembers what she feels like.

You squeeze your eyes shut, but it only makes things worse.

She’s there. Right there.

Alexia, her body pressed up against yours, her hands sliding over your skin, her mouth hot and insistent against your neck. You can almost hear her—low, rough, that voice that used to make you shiver. The way she’d whisper things in your ear that would make your knees weak.

You suck in a breath, your back arching slightly, heat curling tighter in your core.

It’s not enough.

It’s never enough.

Your phone slips from your hand, nearly falling into the water. You catch it just in time, your fingers trembling as you swipe out of Instagram, heart pounding, skin flushed.

You know exactly where to go.

You open your hidden folder, scroll past the photos and videos you swore you’d never look at again, not after everything.

And then you find it.

A video.

The screen flickers to life, grainy at first, then sharpening into devastating clarity.

Dim lighting. Messy sheets. And there she is.

Alexia, on top of you, hair falling around her face, her pupils blown wide, her body moving against yours in a way that sends a fresh wave of heat straight to your core.

“Hold it steady,” she murmurs, and in the video, your laugh is breathless, shaky, already wrecked.

“I am,” you whisper back, your voice trembling with anticipation.

Alexia smirks, that familiar, devastating smirk that always made your stomach drop. “No, you’re not.”

Then—her mouth.

A whimper escapes your lips, your hand moving faster beneath the water, chasing the pleasure that’s already starting to slip away from you.

On the screen, Alexia moves with purpose, her hands sliding down your body, her mouth trailing heat along your skin. You can hear your own voice through the speakers, shaky and desperate.

“Ale…”

She hums, low and indulgent. “I got you.”

Your breathing stutters, your back arching as the memory of her—of her mouth on your skin, her hands spreading over your waist—makes the heat in your body burn brighter, sharper.

The video plays on—Alexia’s mouth moving lower, teasing, taking her time. You remember exactly how it felt, the press of her lips, the way she looked up at you through her lashes, her eyes dark with intent.

Your hand moves faster, your hips shifting involuntarily in the water as the pressure builds and builds, heat twisting tighter inside you.

You’re so close—

And then your phone rings.

Loud. Abrupt. Horribly timed.

You flinch, the sound of it shocking you out of the haze you were in. The video cuts off, the screen flickering—Alexia’s face disappearing and reappearing, this time in a way that makes your stomach lurch.

It’s her.

Her name flashing on your screen.

You freeze.

Heat vanishes in an instant, replaced by a sharp jolt of adrenaline. The video is still playing, but it might as well be a distant echo now, drowned out by the insistent ringing.

Your heart pounds as you fumble with your phone, fingers wet and shaky as you see her name again.

Alexia.

The universe is fucking with you. It has to be.

You hesitate, chest still heaving, your body still throbbing from what you were just doing. You could ignore it. You should.

But then—the kids.

Your hand shakes as you wipe it on the edge of the tub, taking a deep, unsteady breath before you swipe to answer.

“…Hello?”

There’s a pause.

Then, her voice.

Low. Familiar. Still so fucking effortless.

“The girls are sleeping.”

You blink, trying to pull yourself back, trying to will the heat from your body, but it’s impossible. Alexia exhales softly on the other end of the line, and you hear the faint rustle of fabric, the distant hum of something in the background—maybe the TV, maybe the quiet of her place.

You press your knees to your chest, struggling to make your voice sound normal. “Okay.”

There’s a beat too long. You can feel her waiting, hanging on the silence.

You don’t fill it.

“Just thought you’d wanna know,” she says, smooth and casual, like she didn’t just ruin you a minute ago without even knowing.

“Yeah. Thanks.” Your voice is rough, your throat dry. You clear it quickly, reaching for your wine glass with shaking fingers, needing something—anything—to ground yourself.

Alexia hums softly. Then—“What are you doing?”

You almost choke.

There’s no way she knows. No way.

You force out a laugh, too light, too dismissive. “Nothing.”

Silence. You can picture her now—head tilted, brow slightly furrowed, trying to figure you out.

Like she still knows you.

You shift in the water, the coolness seeping into your skin, making the heat of the moment feel more distant. You set your glass down, pulling the towel closer. “Did you need something else?”

Another quiet breath. It’s impossible to tell if she’s tired or if it’s something else entirely.

“No,” she says eventually. “That’s it.”

“Okay.”

You expect her to hang up.

She doesn’t.

You wait, your fingers gripping the towel so tightly your knuckles ache.

“Good night,” she says, softer this time.

You close your eyes, exhaling slowly.

"Night.”

A beat. Then the line goes dead.

You let your phone slip from your fingers, dropping it onto the bath mat. You stare blankly at the ceiling, your heart still racing, your body still trembling.

The bathwater is cool now, the video paused, mocking you from the dim glow of your phone screen.

And then—another notification.

Ellie Mercer accepted your follow request.

Ellie Mercer followed you back

You don’t open her profile. Not yet. You barely even finish the thought—because another notification slides in before you can process it.

From Alexia.

A picture.

You click it without thinking.

And suddenly, everything stills.

Iris curled up on her side, a fist tucked beneath her cheek. Nora beside her, arms flung wide, one leg dangling off the bed like she collapsed mid-chaos. The soft nightlight glows faintly in the corner, casting golden shadows across their sleeping faces.

No caption. No words. Just this.

Your heart clenches so sharply it’s almost physical.

You stare for a long time. The screen dims once, then brightens again under your touch.

Your fingers move before you can stop them. They look so peaceful, you type.

You set your phone face-down on the floor, lean your head back against the edge of the tub, and close your eyes.

You don’t know what the hell you’re doing.

But the ache inside you hasn’t gone anywhere.

It’s still there.

Still sharp.

Still growing.

Sindy's video for Married to the Ruin was sponsored by Unconventional Bride Magazine.

Married to the Ruin is Sindy at her coldest and most cinematic — a darkwave gothic track built around one sharp idea: sometimes the relationship dies, but you’re the one left standing in what it wrecked. The page frames the video with Sindy in a ruined wedding dress, where “forever” has rotted into silence and mud.

The lyrics lean hard into imagery that feels soaked and rusted: cold water at my knees, white lace in the dirt, vows that taste like something corroded. It’s not romantic tragedy so much as emotional realism — the moment you realize the sacred parts didn’t survive the night.

What gives the song its bite is the restraint. Sindy doesn’t beg, doesn’t plead, doesn’t rewrite history to make it prettier. The hook is basically a verdict: you walked away unbroken — I stayed here and survived. It’s a survival anthem disguised as a wedding scene, and the contrast is the whole point: innocence versus devastation, lace versus mud, “I do” versus “I’m done.”

Learn more on Sindy's official website. https://gothgirlsindy.com/