Because that was answer enough.
I turned to her slowly, the kind of slow that precedes a disaster. My rage simmered just beneath the surface—quiet, coiled, ready to strike.
And there she stood.
In that dress.
In my house.
After letting him touch her.
Defiant as ever.
But she didn’t even realize how vulnerable she looked. That bare skin. That storm in her eyes. That fragile little chin tilted up like she didn’t know I could snap it with a word.
“Did you enjoy playing house with him while I was gone?” I asked, voice low and even.
Not a shout.
Worse.
A promise.
Her eyes flared—fuck, that spark—and I could see it coming before she opened her mouth.
“You don’t get to be jealous,” she said, every syllable dipped in acid. “You’re the reason I needed someone in the first place.”
It hit.
Harder than I expected.
I didn’t show it.
But it burned.
Needed someone… because of me.
I stepped in.
Closed the distance like a predator in a room with no exits.
“You think he’s better than me?” I asked, voice quiet but full of teeth. “You think he could ever take care of you the way I can?”
She didn’t flinch.
She dared to lean in.
“I think he treats me like a person,” she snapped. “Not some possession you can flaunt like a trophy.”
Trophy?
Trophy?
My blood boiled. I could feel the pulse behind my eyes, the way the room tilted slightly under the pressure building in my chest.
“You think you’re betrayed?” I hissed. “You let him in. You let him touch you. You invited him into my home.”
My voice rose with every word, venom slipping through every crack.
