Where Stars Align

Chapter One

I never thought I'd entertain the idea of cheating—until now. But here I am, wrestling with a thought that feels both thrilling and terrifying. It doesn't feel as wrong as I always thought it would. Society says if you even let that thought flicker through your mind, especially while married, you're destined for the judgment of the unforgivable. But what if the person who sparked this idea was my husband? Not directly, but it was Richard who criticized my last book as too vanilla, too plain, blaming it wasn't flying off the shelves due to mediocrity.

And now, the notion of writing something forbidden is creeping in, like an old friend I thought I had buried. It's enticing, and I know it could unravel more than just my career. But I can't help but wonder... why is it surfacing now?

Maybe it's the season—the sultry summer air awakening something restless inside me. Or maybe it's that familiar self-destructive urge, the one I've tried to choke down since I got married. Or perhaps it's the nagging realization that my life has become as predictable as the plotlines I used to mock.

Love isn't supposed to be predictable. It's supposed to be wild, reckless, consuming. Isn't that what we crave? Stories that remind us of the chaos we've buried under the weight of safety?

I glance down at my ridiculous hundred-dollar slippers. They're comfortable but infuriating. Why am I wearing these? I don't even like slippers! I like to walk barefoot.

I wish I could say it was Rich who bought them but it was me. I guess that's what happens when you run with an idea of who you should be.

Marriage comes with lots of stickers.

Underneath them is the girl who conquered mountains, juggled three jobs, and danced until dawn, chaos my comfort zone and freedom my lifeline. But then Richard entered the picture, and I willingly traded my wild spirit for stability.

He seemed like everything I was supposed to want—a polished CEO, a serious gentleman, the kind of man who would make my mother swoon. The moment she learned he was twelve years older than me, she practically threw a party. He charmed her effortlessly, and it didn't hurt that he looked like the blond poster boy for a luxury yacht ad—always impeccably groomed. He wasn't the most romantic guy, but he had his way of making me feel safe, seen, and cherished.

So there I was, freshly twenty-three, listening to my mother's nagging about settling down, about thinking of my future.

What began as a spontaneous trip to Seattle turned into a whirlwind proposal and an even faster marriage, because, as Richard loves to say, "Life is too short for waiting..." I remember the first time I saw him in an apron, nearly burning the kitchen while trying to make pancakes for me. I was sold. It wasn't just about making the right choice; I genuinely fell for him—the way he winked at me, as if I could always count on him, the way he spoke of "us" without hesitation. No games. No second-guessing. It felt like a breath of fresh air after the stormy seas of my dating life.

But now, the cursor on my blank page blinks at me, a silent reminder of the stories trapped inside me. My last book barely made a splash—"safe" and "uninspired," the reviews said.

Richard's voice echoes in my mind: "You need to dig deeper, Em. Find something real to write about. People aren't interested in happily ever afters; they want something raw." He didn't mean to hurt me; I know he was just being Richard—brutally honest, practical. But the sting of his words lingers. What am I supposed to say in response? "Well, it's not like our marriage is a beacon of inspiration, Richard. With your late-night deadlines and my creeping sense that I'm missing something, and I don't even know if it has anything to do with you."

Carl, my agent, wasn't much kinder. "Emma, people crave something with teeth. They want to be consumed by the story. We can't release another book that's just a bath-time read, something you only take to scroll through Instagram."