Chapter Six: Too Close to the Fire

                                        

                                              

October.
Even her name was a contradiction. A month of endings and beginnings. The rustle of dying leaves and the first kiss of winter's breath. Warmth wrapped in the chill. She was like that—soft and blazing at once. My October. My wife.
And now I was losing her.
I was still holding the damned phone in my hand. 
Her voice had shaken with rage earlier. Not the petty anger of a passing argument—but something deeper, something broken. Like the wind ripping the last leaves off a tree. She'd never screamed at me like that. Never looked at me like I wasn't hers anymore.
And I didn't understand it. God, I didn't understand it.
October had always loved me. Ever since we were teenagers, when her affection was loud and embarrassing and unwavering. I'd walk through the school hallway with her bouncing beside me, clinging to my arm, calling me ridiculous pet names like "Honeybun" or "Teddy." Everyone mocked me for it. They'd roll their eyes, snicker behind their lockers—but I secretly loved it. Loved that I was her whole world.
When I got brave enough and asked her out, it was like falling off a cliff. Swift. Complete. No turning back.
But our views of love were galaxies apart.
She came from a middle-class family where love was air—abundant and necessary. Her parents kissed on the mouth every morning, her siblings tackled her in bear hugs, their fridge had notes and doodles and ridiculous to-do lists with hearts drawn around the chores. They said "I love you" before hanging up the phone. They called each other "bub," "babycakes," "sunflower." And she brought all that with her—belly-laughing warmth, reckless affection, nicknames, kisses on my jawline when I was reading, forehead touches when I was angry.
But I didn't come from love.
I came from steel. From a house that sounded like a church with no God—quiet, strict, and ruled by a man who believed love was weakness.
My father didn't believe in affection. He believed in control. He didn't raise his hand to my mother—he didn't have to. Smiled through it all.
He ruled her like a king and she worshipped him like a god. 
 When I once asked her if she was truly happy, she patted my cheek like I was being silly.
"Your father provides. That's how a man loves." And then she returned to peeling potatoes, humming to herself like that answer was enough.
But for me, it wasn't.
Especially not when I was the only son in a house built like an army camp. My father treated me like a soldier. There were belts. There were drills. There were "lessons" in manhood delivered with cold fists and roaring threats. My sister Beth rebelled from the beginning—wild, untamable—but I... I broke early. I learned that obedience meant survival. That love—if it ever came—would not look like tenderness. It would look like loyalty. Silence. Discipline. Sacrifice.
So I became his perfect shadow. Not because I admired him. But because I needed him to see me. Just once. I needed him to say he was proud.
He never did.
And now, all these years later, I'm the CEO of his company. The company he still owns. The one where he watches everything like a hawk and still has the power to destroy me with a phone call. He hasn't hit me in years, but he doesn't need to. One raised eyebrow, one snide remark in the boardroom, and I'm ten years old again—trying not to flinch.
Then Laura came.
She wasn't just efficient. She was exceptional. Brought in clients no one else could. Landed a partnership deal my father had chased for years. She made my father look at me with something close to approval. She became the company's princess. Untouchable. Respected. Worshipped. And all I could do was try to keep up.