October, The Odd Ones

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.

Dad started praising her in front of the entire board. Loudly. Publicly. Casually cruel.

"She's doing in months what you haven't in years," he said once, like it was just a fact.
Like it wasn't a knife.

It landed heavy in the room—everyone stiffening, eyes flickering, pretending they hadn't heard what they clearly had.

And she just smiled—Laura—like she hadn't asked for any of this. Like it was nothing to do with her. Like being the golden girl wasn't something she noticed or even needed.

But it changed something in me. I didn't hate her. I didn't blame her.

Instead I started moving toward her. Not romantically. Not emotionally. Just... logistically.

I started syncing my hours with hers. I checked in more often, started sitting in on meetings I wasn't required to attend. Helped with her presentations. Polished her reports. I knew how to make things land well with my father, and I offered that to her freely.

Because if she succeeded—and made him proud—maybe he'd finally see me differently too.

Maybe some of her shine would rub off on me.
Maybe he'd stop looking at me like I was the biggest mistake he'd brought into his company.

So I made her a priority at work. I carved space for her success.

Not just because she made the work easier.  But because she made him look at me with less disgust. Less disappointment. Because when I stood beside her, he spoke to me in full sentences. Because when I helped her win, he smiled at both of us. And it became this quiet transaction between us.

The best part is that she wasn't rude, or haughty, or smug like she had every right to be under his protection. No—Laura was soft. Sweet. She carried herself like she was just there to help, always helpful, always nearby.

Even flirty sometimes.

But not in a way you could call out. Not in a way that would get her in trouble.

I didn't flirt back. But I didn't shut her down, either.

Because it made the workday smoother.
It made the air lighter. It made the silence feel full instead of lonely.
She knew just when to pass me a tool, or offer a smile, or drop a soft comment about how focused I looked, how smart I was, how no one else could've fixed that so quickly.

And maybe I should've said something. Maybe I should've pulled away.

But I'd never had that kind of attention at work. That kind of steady warmth in a place that was usually cold and competitive.

She was beautiful, and everyone saw it. All the men fawned over her, orbiting her like moths around a flame. But for some reason, she only seemed to have time for me.

She memorized how I took my coffee. She'd bring me one before I even asked.
She could read my moods before I opened my mouth.
She always made sure there was a seat beside her at the table during break, patting it like it had my name on it.

And I let it happen. because I felt Important. Manly. Attractive without having to ask for it.

I loved Laura's attention.

It was cute. Harmless. Light, like a breeze you barely notice until it's gone. She wasn't clingy or inappropriate—she just made me feel... seen. Not in the deep, soul-shattering way October does. 

But in a way that mattered from nine to five.

She'd compliment my shirts, joke about my grumpy morning face, bring me my favorite coffee when I looked particularly drained. It wasn't love. It wasn't temptation. It was just a pleasant rhythm we fell into—an unspoken understanding of each other's roles in the machinery of our workplace lives.

So to me, they existed in two completely different spheres.

October was my wife. My home. My stillness. My family. The love of my life. She was the place I returned to when the world felt jagged and ugly. She was laughter over dinner, feet tucked under mine on the couch, the hum of a life we'd built together.

Laura was... the opposite. Not a threat. Just a contrast.

With her, I moved differently. Sharper. Quicker. At work, she and I had efficiency down to a science. She made me feel smart, needed, powerful in a space that often tried to strip all that away from me. She knew how to read a room, how to make things happen, how to win.

So when October started getting jealous... it felt absurd. Completely out of nowhere.

They didn't even touch the same parts of me.

Love and comfort and peace? That was October. That was sacred.
Efficiency, ambition, momentum? That was Laura. That was survival.

I couldn't understand what October thought she was seeing. Because in my head, it wasn't betrayal.

It was balance.

Or at least, that's what I told myself.

Until today.

The phone rang again, dragging me back to the present. I blinked and looked down.

Her face.

Laura's face. Smiling to camera with lips puckered in a kiss.

She had changed my lock screen. I didn't understand. How the hell did her picture get on my phone?

And then it hit me—like a slow, rising horror. That day. The day October showed up unannounced, furious and radiant and loud in the office. I was late for a meeting with my father. My mind was spiraling. I couldn't think straight. I kept checking my phone every three minutes, waiting for a text from October. For a word. A sign.

My father noticed.

He'd scowled at me, then waved Laura over like I was a child needing supervision. "Give her your phone until the meeting is over," he snapped. "You need to focus. She'll handle anything urgent."

And like a fool—I did.

I handed over my phone to a woman protected by my father, favored by my board, and clever enough to take an inch and turn it into a mile.

Now her photo was smiling at me from the screen. Playful. Close. Personal.

I answered the call with dread already curling in my stomach like a fist I couldn't unclench.

Laura's voice burst through the speaker, bright and cheerful.
"Did you see it?" she laughed, like this was a shared joke between us. "Surprise! I figured we're practically work partners—might as well have a cute pic for each other's contact. I'll take one of you next time, make it even."

I couldn't speak.

My throat went dry. My mind blank. My fingers trembled slightly where they gripped the phone, still held to my ear like I was waiting for the rest of the sentence to explain something away. But there was nothing else. No sarcasm. No irony. Just her voice, sweet and casual and... intimate.

And just like that, everything shifted.

Suddenly, I wasn't hearing her the way I usually did, through the lens of banter and professionalism and harmlessness. I was hearing her the way October might. The way someone outside our little "sphere" would.

 her words landed differently.

"Cute pic ."
"We're practically partners."
"I'll take one of you next time."

A ray of light cracked through the door I had worked so hard to keep shut. A beam of truth I didn't ask for—but one I couldn't ignore.

For the first time, I began to see how October had been seeing it all along. Because from the outside, it didn't look harmless. It looked intimate.

And suddenly, I didn't feel like the composed, logical man with his priorities in order.

I felt like a fool.

A fool who hadn't realized that standing too close to the fire is still a kind of burning.

I didn't light the match. But I stood in the heat and called it harmless.

And October?

She was smelling the smoke.