I let out a soft, humorless laugh and shake my head.
So this is the real him,I think.
The man who walked into my father’s house like he owned the place. The one who demanded a bride and expected the world to rearrange itself around his decision.
Maybe the warmth was the act.
Maybe the kindness was the distraction.
“Well,” I murmur to the empty house, “you married the wrong woman for that.”
Because I am not a door mat.
And I am definitely not something pretty to be worn on a man’s arm when it suits him.
That thought steadies me.
I head upstairs, change into something comfortable and familiar—jeans, boots, a sweater that smells likeme—and do exactly what he told me to do.
What I would’ve done anyway.
I order a rideshare and head into town.
My favorite coffee shop greets me like it always does: warm air, low music, the barista already reaching for my usual. I take my drink to the corner table and open my notebooks, losing myself in plans and lists and ideas that remind me who I am.
For a while, it’s easy. Then I get that feeling. The one that crawls up my spine. Like someone’s watching me.
I glance around casually—too casually—but everything looks normal. A couple talking near the window. Someone typing on a laptop. Nothing out of place.
Still… I don’t shake the feeling.
My phone buzzes.
Langston:
I’m sorry about this morning.
I stare at the screen for a moment before replying.
Me:
I’m good. Nothing to worry about.
Another buzz a few minutes later.
Langston:
I shouldn’t have snapped.
I don’t answer that one right away. Instead, I finish my notes, close my notebook, and take one last sip of coffee. When I finally respond, it’s honest—but guarded.
Me:
We’ll talk later.
I slip my phone into my bag, feeling lighter as I stand.
Work will ground me.
