“You were married to Barron Lawlor for almost ten years. From the outside, you looked like the perfect couple. Is there anything you wish to say to him now?”
Selene paused. Turned. Tilted her head. Smiled. The kind that used to precede sex.Or war.
Then:
“Yes.”
A pause.
“Thank you for giving me everything I needed to destroy you.”
I didn’t move.
She turned back to the cameras. Walked up the courthouse steps. Every click of her heels sounded like a countdown. I reached forward. Pressed the power button. The screen went black. The car was silent.
No music. No radio. No voice in my ear asking if I was okay. Because I wasn’t. Because I hadn’t been since the day she chose press over loyalty.
The drive was slow. Wipers dragging across glass that didn’t need clearing. Even the city looked like it knew better than to ask questions. I turned down the street slowly.
The hedges were still trimmed. The mailbox still clean. The security system still blinking red like a pulse.
I pulled into the drive. The gate opened on cue. Like the house still thought I lived here. Maybe I did. Maybe some version of me never left.
The brick was clean. The lawn manicured. The path to the door lined with slate she handpicked. On a whim. The front door opened with the same code she once kissed into my jaw.
The foyer greeted me with polished tile. Scented candles. Ivory hydrangeas—always fake. It smelled like citrus and money. And her.
The chandelier above me glittered faintly in the filtered light. One of the bulbs was out. I hadn’t noticed before.
I stepped inside. Silence. But not peace. Just design. Everything still in place.
The champagne flutes. The framed wedding photo that never made it to print. The couch she chose. The throw pillows she corrected. The mirror she hated until she saw her reflection in it at night.
The rugs were cream. No dust. No hair. No fingerprints. I walked through the house like a museum curator.
No.
Like a coroner.
I paused in the kitchen.
The wine rack was full. She never drank red.
The fruit bowl was wax. The lemons too perfect.
The counters wiped so many times they shone like guilt. Then upstairs. To the bedroom. The bed was made. Of course it was.
Egyptian cotton. Cream. A cashmere throw folded at the edge. Two pillows. One slightly indented. The other untouched.
I didn’t sit. I didn’t speak. I just stared at the place she used to fake sleep. And remembered the sound of her voice the last time she said:
“It just doesn’t feel like ours anymore.”
No. It never did.
It was always mine.
She never wanted a home—just something to decorate, something to own.
