Sarah sighs, already halfway to frustration. “Everyone’s tired,” she mutters under her breath. I scoff at the response. When did this become so hard?
Just as she reaches the bedroom doorway, she turns to me. “Are you coming?”
“In a minute,” I say, forcing a smile.
She pauses, clearly displeased. “Don’t stay up all night staring at nothing. Tomorrow matters.”
The light clicks off. The bedroom door stays open, spilling dim warmth into the room.
I don’t move and focus again on the crack in the wall wishing I could take its place.
I let my forehead rest in my hands, pressing my fingers into my eyes until the world goes dark. No family left to call. No old friends who didn’t fade away when life got complicated. Just this apartment. This marriage. This city that never stops asking for more.
Sarah isn’t cruel. She’s familiar. Familiar is easier than starting again. Easier than admitting I don’t know how to become the man she’s waiting for. Easier than admitting I don’t want to be that man.
I imagine a different life — quiet, hidden, full of unfinished projects and no one watching the clock. The thought feels dangerous in its relief.
Oh get a grip, Leo. I need to make this work. If Sarah is finally happy then maybe our life will shift into happinessalong with it.
Tomorrow, I’ll put onthe uniform. Tomorrow, I’ll show up.
I stand from the table and push away the feeling of being trapped by love and obligation and the slow, creeping fear that I’m already disappearing.
I move over to the light switch and turn it off.
The crack in the wall vanishes into darkness, and I follow it to bed.
CHAPTER 2 - ETHAN
It’s eight-am and I’ve already completed my three daily morning tasks. Gym, jerking off, and shower. My sore muscles and orgasm relief put my mood on a manageable scale. Setting me up for the day.
I wrap my expensive fluffy white towel around my waist and move over to the sink to complete my routine. My bathroom is disgustingly large and unnecessary. But so is the rest of this penthouse. I’m very rich, so I want the best. At thirty years old I own a hotel chain that I built over time, called The Infinity Hotel. Money has never been an issue in my life. I was born into a millionaire lifestyle and inherited the cash it provided. I don’t have to work, or even have a business. But my mind would go crazy if nothing occupied it. Even though this routine is starting to lose my interest. Which is not a good thing.
I take these next few moments in my stride as I brush my teeth and trim my close shaved beard, white assessingmyself in the large mirror in front of me. This is the most honest part of my day before the mask settles.
The mirror always tells the truth.
Not the truth people want, which is the polite fiction of morning faces and tired eyes, but the real thing that makes up every part of your DNA and personality. The thing that exists before the performance. Before I put on the skin.
The bathroom light hums above me, too bright, too honest. White tiles cover the bathroom. I like its clinical nature. White sink with chrome handles. Everything clean enough to suggest innocence. Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to it, as it’s the opposite of me. I brace my hands against the porcelain and stare at myself like I’m studying a stranger’s face in a lineup.
This is the face they trust.
Dark black hair that never quite behaves. Dark brown eyes that look thoughtful if I keep them still long enough, but if I don’t, you could mistake them for not being real with how vacant they look, like doll’s eyes that show no sign of human emotion being present. A mouth that can be trained into warmth and concern, into the vague softness people mistake for kindness. I tilt my head slightly, testing angles, expressions.
Smile.
Too much teeth. Predatory. No.
Again.
Lips closed. Small. Controlled. The kind that says I’m listening, that I care. The kind that makes people talk.
Better.
I watch myself as if I’m two people: the one being observed, and the one doing the observing. The second one is the real me. He’s calm. Curious. Hungry in a way that has nothing to do with food.
“You look normal,” I murmur, testing the word like it’s foreign. Normal. Christ, what a ridiculous aspiration.
