After the first time I had him inside me in his office, the way he unraveled just from my touch…I knew.
I wouldn’t give him up.
Within weeks, he was under my skin. And what began as a petty, stupid little game turned into an addiction.
A different kind of destruction.Sweeter. More dangerous.
I watch Cecily turn her back on me.
“Love! Love! That’s all anyone ever talks about. But what kind of love is this—one that betrays, manipulates, that destroys?”
She shakes her head, disgust written all over her face.
“I want nothing to do with that kind of selfish, poisonous love,” she says under her breath, almost to herself.
I take a step closer, wanting her to hear every word.
“That’s your problem,” I say. “That’s why Colin kept running backto meevery chance he got…you’re weak.”
I pause, letting the words sink in.
“You could never give him what he needs. I would die for him. I gave him everything I had. I’d happily give more if he asked.”
Her revulsion doesn’t break me. It feeds me.
“In a few months, when our son is born, he’ll see. He’ll realize I’m the better choice. Soon enough, he won’t even remember those pathetic children you gave him.”
I see her hand rise. Instinctively, I brace for the slap, eyes shut, heart pounding, wanting her to lose control, to fall off the pedestal she hides behind.
But it doesn’t come.
When I open them, she’s standing there trembling, fists clenched at her sides, breathing hard through her teeth.
“I won’t let you turn me into someoneI’m not,” she says through gritted teeth. “I won’t give you that power. I won’t let you make me into a woman I’ll be ashamed of later.”
Anger erupts inside me. Before I can even form another sharp retort, her hand clamps around my arm, her nails digging through the fabric of my sleeve, biting into my skin.
The suddenness steals my breath. She drags me across the living room, barely giving me time to grab my purse from the coffee table, fury radiating off her with every determined step, until we reach the door.
She doesn’t speak; she just pulls, jaw tight, eyes burning.
“Don’t ever come to my house again. I don’t want to hear another word out of your mouth.”
She throws the door open and shoves me outside.
I stumble forward, catching myself.
“If you show up here again, or even try to speak to one of my children,” she says, her voice cold despite the fury on her face, “I’ll call the police.”
The door slams shut.
I stand there, my heartbeat wild, my chest aching like it might tear open.
I want to go back. I almost do.
My hand lifts toward the doorbell. I think about shouting everything. About saying names. About ripping off her perfect little mask.
Instead, I take a breath and walk to my car.
