He never has.
My thumb hovers over the notification so long the screen dims.
I tap it awake with a trembling fingertip.
The words 1 New Voicemail stare back at me with the certainty of a loaded gun.
I don’t breathe.
Not when my thumb slides over the notification.
Not when the voicemail opens.
Not when the little Play button glows like an invitation carved out of sin.
I press it.
I don’t even realise I’m holding the counter until my knuckles burn.
The message starts with breath.
His.
Slow.
Measured.
Controlled in a way that feels dangerous.
“Scarlett.”
My knees almost give out.
He’s never said my name like that.
Not even before.
Not even when he swore he loved me so much it hurt.
This is lower.
Rougher.
Older.
Like something inside him cracked years ago and now he’s talking through the break.
“You shouldn’t have listened to the first one twice.”
My breath catches.
A strangled, involuntary sound crawls up my throat.
He knows.
He knows.
“I heard the time stamp,” he says. “I’m not stupid. And you… you don’t get to pretend anymore.”
