The moment fractures on a sharp inhale, slicing through the heat like a blade. Elaine jerks back, clutching the sheet to her chest as if it can shield her from the truth bleeding into the room. Donovan doesn’t move. He’s naked, sprawled in the wreckage of twisted sheets, skin flushed and slick with sweat. Heat radiates from him in waves. His stare locks on mine, steady and unblinking. He is looking at me like I am the trespasser.
The thought drags me back into my body. My spine straightens, my hands still at my sides even though every nerve is screaming to curl into fists. I let the quiet stretch until it stings.
Elaine stands frozen, the sheet clutched to her chest. Her wide-eyed stare finds mine, and she swallows hard. “I… I didn’t know—”
I tilt my head, watching her the way you watch a bug decide which way to run. “No,” I say, each syllable clipped, deliberate. “You didn’t.”
She scrambles for her clothes, snatching them from the floor in frantic, graceless movements, dressing as she backs toward the door.
Donovan rises from the bed, unhurried, dragging on a pair of grey sweatpants without a word. He slips past me, his shoulder brushing mine, and keeps walking towards the kitchen. That’s the final straw. My walls crack, the rage flooding through like a dam bursting.
“Don’t—don’t youdareturn your back on me, Donovan.”
My voice fractures, but I don’t let it stop me.
“You don’t get to walk away like some coward just to dodge whatever scrap of guilt you might actually have. You were man enough to fuck Elaine, so be man enough to look me in the eyes while you finish the destruction you started.”
I rip my wedding ring from my finger so fast it nearly slices my skin.
“I’m your goddamnwife,” I hiss, throwing it across the room. It strikes his bare chest with a sharpthudbefore hitting the floor at his feet. He doesn’t look down, but his jaw flexes once, tight enough to cut glass.
“That ring was a promise—to love, to respect, to fight for each other through whatever hell came our way. But I don’t owe you love or respect while you fuck a woman who’s spent half her life hating me.”
Silence. His jaw is stone.
“Nothing to say?” My lips curl, venom lacing with my words. “Fine. You want me to be the villain? I’ll be here for you, baby.”
My chest heaves, every muscle trembling.
“Get the fuck out of my house, Donovan. Take your lies with you.”
I don’t wait for a reply. My voice drops to a low, lethal growl.
“I hope you burn in hell.”
My chest heaves, every muscle trembling.
“Get the fuck out of my house, Donovan. Take your lies with you.”
I turn, closing the bedroom door with deliberate force—not a slam, but a sound meant to echo. The air is still thick with them, clinging to the sheets, the walls, and the floor.
The wineglass on the nightstand catches my eye, the pink lipstick smudge, his fingerprints ghosting the stem. I grab it before I can think better of it, hurling it against the wall. The shatter rings through the room, sharp and satisfying, a single moment of chaos cutting through my control. Shards glitter across the carpet like tiny, dangerous truths.
I breathe once, twice, then move. The sheets are pulled from the bed, folded once, then dropped into the hall like evidence waiting to be bagged. The pillows follow, stacked neatly by the door. I sweep the glass into a dustpan and empty it into the trash without a sound. By the time I’m done, the room looks untouched, perfect… sterile. But the image is still burned into me, an afterimage that even perfection can’t hide.
Donovan
The shatter echoes down the hall, sharp as a gunshot. I don’t flinch. I don’t turn. I just stand there in the dark kitchen, staring at nothing, my hands braced on the counter; it’s the only thing keeping me upright. The sound isn’t just glass—it's the final note that leaves nothing but silence in its wake.
Elaine’s gone. I don’t remember the door closing behind her, only the hollow space she left.
I’m alone.
The sweat cooling on my skin feels wrong now, like it doesn’t belong to me. The twisted sheets sit just outside the bedroom door, her perfume still hanging in the air—and beneath it, fainter but sharper, is Stella. Her scent threads through the ache in my chest, cutting deeper than anything else in this house.
I push away from the counter, dragging on the first pair of jeans I find. My t-shirt sticks to my back, damp with sweat, and I strip it off just to pull on another. My jacket waits on the hook by the door—Stella must have brought it with her; I had left it in Mac’s truck. My fingers linger on the worn leather before I shove my arms through the sleeves.
Helmet. Gloves. Riding boots.
