My jaw tightens. “Yes.”
I stand abruptly, the papers still in my hand, needing distance. “You want water? You’ve got it. Food’s in the fridge. Towels are in the guest bathroom. The guest room’s down the hall.”
She watches me carefully. “You’re just… leaving me here?”
“I have things to do.”
“At nine at night?”
“It’s my house,” I snap—then immediately regret it when she flinches.
I drag in a breath. “Treat it as yours for the night,” I add, the words rough in my mouth. “But leave me alone.”
Her mouth twitches, like she’s fighting a smile.
That somehow makes my mood worse.
I stalk toward the hallway. When I pause at the base of the stairs and glance back, she’s still sitting in the living room, clutching her water glass.
She looks small.
And stubborn.
Like she’s bracing for impact.
My voice comes out rough and clipped. “Guest room. Get some sleep. We deal with this tomorrow.”
She nods once. “Okay.”
I take the stairs two at a time because I need to get away from her before my anger shifts into something else.
Upstairs, my bedroom is the one place I usually feel calm. Dark. Orderly. Quiet. My sanctuary.
Tonight it feels like a cage.
I strip off my shirt, toss it into the hamper, and stand there staring at my own reflection in the mirror like I’m trying to find the exact moment I lost control of my life.
Vegas.
That’s the moment.
That stupid chapel.
That stupid ring.
I run a hand over my face, then drop onto the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees.
One night.
That’s what I told her.
One night and then we fix it.
We go to Daniel. We figure out the next step. We contain the fallout.
I cling to that plan like it’s a life raft.
Downstairs, I hear a faint creak, then footsteps. Her footsteps.
