If he finds them—if he reads even a single word—everything comes apart.
My heartbeat spikes, hard and sudden.
Move.
Move now.
I wipe my face with the heel of my hand, smearing tears and sleep and panic across my skin as I push myself off the floor. The letters flutter, fragile and dangerous, almost slipping from my grip.
“No,” I whisper, clutching them tighter. “No, don’t—don’t drop. Don’t… just stay with me.”
My voice fractures on the last words.
I glance at the door.
Noah is still asleep.
Still breathing evenly.
Still oblivious to the fact that a ghost stood at his bedside and stared at the woman he thinks belongs to him.
The mirror catches my reflection—wide eyes, blotchy cheeks, shaking hands.
I look exactly how I felt the day I stood in court.
Lost.
Terrified.
Divided.
I swallow a sob and force myself to act.
I unfold the towel cupboard beneath the sink—the one Noah never touches because he hates clutter and linens aren’t symmetrical enough for his liking.
Towels, folded neatly.
Perfume gift sets.
A spare box of cotton pads.
Nothing suspicious.
Nothing sentimental.
Perfect.
I shove aside a stack of folded towels, fingers clumsy and frantic, until there’s a small, hidden gap at the very back.
The letters tremble in my hand.
The new one.
The old one.
Both bearing my name like a wound.
My throat tightens.
