I stood there, useless, staring at the empty space she’d just occupied. Her perfume still clung to the air. The sheets were stillrumpled. My shirt lay on the floor where she’d dropped it to get dressed.
My hands shook.
Fuck. I killed her. I killed us. I watched my baby break and I didn’t move. What the fuck have I done.
I forced myself to breathe. In. Out. Repeat. I pressed my fists to my thighs so I didn’t punch a hole through the wall.
All I could see when I closed my eyes were her bruises, blooming yellow and purple under her skin. Her hand over her heart. The way her mouth trembled when she said I promised.
I staggered to the window and braced my forehead against the cool glass, lungs burning like I’d been running for miles.
If I wanted her alive, I had to end it.
For now.
I told myself I’d find a way back to her. That this wasn’t forever. That one day she’d stand on a Crow island balcony with my crest inked across her back and my name on her skin and I’d spend the rest of my life begging her to forgive this night.
I told myself I’d have time.
Because the alternative—that this was it, that I’d just watched the love of my life walk out for good—felt like a bullet lodged in my chest.
45
Madeline
“Madeline? Is that you?”
I wiped under my eyes with my thumbs, hoping I’d scrubbed away the redness. A quick glance in the hallway mirror proved otherwise. A face that looked exactly like what it was—someone who’d cried herself inside out alone in the back of a car.
I straightened, lifted my chin, rearranged my mouth into something neutral.
There was nothing worse than family dinners.
The weight of her attention settled the moment I stepped into the dining room. Her gaze caught me and narrowed.
“Goodness,” she breathed, like she’d discovered a stain on heirloom silk, “you look pale.”
I forced a small smile. “It was a long day. I’m fine.”
Even I didn’t believe it.
My father looked up from his tablet, concern immediately. “Maddy, are you feeling unwell?”
“I’m okay.”
Just spent two hours sobbing over a man who decided I was an inconvenience. Apart from that, perfectly fine.
My mother studied me with that slow, clinical sweep from hair to shoes that missed nothing and cared about even less. Hergaze lingered at the faint smudges beneath my eyes; something in her expression sharpened.
“You should’ve fixed your makeup before coming down. The camera crews made everyone look tired at the last event. You don’t want that reputation lingering.”
She made it sound like advice. It wasn’t.
“You missed lunch again,” my father added, eyes still on me. “Your doctor messaged me this afternoon.”
The knot under my ribs tightened.
“He says your blood pressure dropped yesterday,” he went on. “He wants you to adjust your intake. You’re losing weight again.”
