His words are laced with fury, but the way he says “us” feels like an accusation. A punch without the wind-up.
“We grew up in the same house. Had the same fucked-up parents. Same genetics. Same foster houses. Same lack of fucking opportunities. And still—still—he’s always one step ahead.”
He paces faster now, fists clenched at his sides like he’s holding back something too big to name.
“He’s always got the upper hand. Better looking. Better job. Better fucking cars. Hot as fuck wife. She actuallylikeshim.”
My chest tightens, bracing for what’s coming. The oxygen in the room feels thinner with every word he spits.
“And what do I get?” He spins on me, venom in his voice. “A wife who fuckingpitiesme. Amediocrelife. And a cock that can’t even do theonething it’s created to do.”
The words hit me like a slap. My hands instinctively press against my stomach as though to protect it from him, from this moment, from everything he just said.
I force a breath through my lips and stand, taking a step toward him. I want to withdraw from him, but I know it’s in these moments that I need to draw near. He needs me more than ever right now. He just doesn’t know how to ask for it.
“Chase, please don’t talk like that. We’re doing everything we can. We’re going to figure this out, okay?”
“For fuck’s sake, just shut up.” His voice curdles. “You alwayshave something to say. Always trying to spin it. You think your optimism makes you helpful? It makes you afucking joke!”
I take a small step back. He follows.
“You think I don’t see it in your eyes? Thedisappointment? Thepity? You think you could do better than me? You think I can’t do better than you?! I fucking know I can!”
I don’t even know who he’s attacking anymore. All I know is that I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to hear any of this.
His finger jabs through the air, inches from my face. I take another step back, heart racing.
“Chase, you’re scaring me,” I whisper. “Please, just?—”
“I’m scaring you?” he snaps. “I’m the one who’s scared, Tori!Everything about me is broken. Nothing is ever enough! I’m not enough foryou. I’m not enough foranyone. I’m always gonna be the fucked-up version of the man I’m supposed to be! And then I come home to you—you—the one person who’s supposed to have my back, and all I get is pity and your fucking optimism and your empty womb!”
I flinch, my whole body trembling now. “That’s not fair,” I whisper, tears slipping down my cheeks. I inch back further and my heel hits the baseboard. “I don’t pity you. I love you.”
An eerie calm settles over him, so quiet it almost makes me sicker than the shouting. He moves with intention, placing one hand on either side of my head against the wall, caging me in. His breath hits my cheek—hot, rancid, sharp with the bite of whiskey and something rotten. I don’t dare breathe.
Lowering his face to mine, Chase locks eyes with me. There’s nothing in them now. No warmth. No recognition. Just a man hollowed out and hunting for someone to blame.
When he speaks, his voice is low—quiet enough to be mistaken for tenderness by anyone not standing in my place—but every syllable is laced with cruelty.
“Love?” he murmurs, so close it curls in my ear. “Was it love when you latched onto the broken foster kid because you wantedto fix him? A little project for you to heal and patch up with your sunshine and spreadsheets?”
My stomach churns, bile burning the back of my throat.
“Was it love when you decided your perfect life would look better with a tragedy in the prom pictures? When you told yourself I just needed stability? That you were the answer to all my fucked-up questions?”
I blink rapidly, trying to hold back tears I know will only provoke him more.
He leans in closer—too close—his voice dipping into something almost soft, almost intimate, but soaked in venom.
“Was it love when you manipulated me into marrying you? When you smiled and promised me I’d be happy, that you’d be enough? Because you thought a good woman and a white picket fence would fix all the cracks in my fucking soul?”
I shake my head, barely, just barely, afraid even that motion will send him spiraling.
He doesn’t flinch. Just stares at me like I’m the reason he hates his own reflection.
“All I feel is dead inside,” he breathes, “all the goddamn time. And you? You’re the one who pulled me under.”
He pauses just long enough to lower his voice into something more dangerous. More accusatory.
