The thought slips out before I can stop it.
“How do you know her?”
The question lands like a dropped plate.
For half a second—just half—his face changes.
Not anger.
Fear.
It’s gone almost immediately, replaced by irritation, but I saw it. I felt it.
“I don’t,” he says too quickly. “She’s nobody.”
My heart starts pounding harder.
“Nobody?” I whisper. “Then why did you stiffen when she touched my phone? Why did she tell me you hate competition? Why did she?—”
“That’s enough,” he cuts in, voice rising. “You’re tired. You’re imagining things.”
I stare at him.
“You hate lying,” I say softly.
He stills.
I swallow, forcing the words past the knot in my throat. “You told me that. You said it was beneath you. That you’d rather be cruel than dishonest.”
His fingers twitch.
“You’re lying to me right now,” I continue, tears slipping free. “About her. About everything.”
His jaw tightens.
“And you were married,” I add, the words shaking. “Why didn’t you tell me you were married before?”
That’s when he loses it.
He releases my wrist only to slam his palm into the door beside my head, the sound cracking like a gunshot. I flinch violently.
“Because it doesn’t matter,” he roars. “Because it’s done. Because she’s dead to me.”
Dead.
The word sinks claws into my chest.
“You don’t get to interrogate me,” he continues, breathing hard. “Not after everything I’ve given you. Not after I pulled you out of that gutter life and handed you a future.”
“I didn’t ask for this,” I sob. “I didn’t ask to be owned.”
His eyes darken.
“Careful,” he says quietly. Too quietly. “You don’t want to start sounding ungrateful.”
I slide down the door, my legs giving out, curling in on myself as his shadow looms over me. My wrist is already purpling, the shape of his fingers blooming beneath the skin.
“I just wanted the truth,” I whisper.
