I move closer, until my reflection appears beside hers in the mirror. Our eyes meet through the glass.
“You’re my wife.”
She holds my gaze, unflinching. “Convenient when it benefits you. Irrelevant when it benefits me.”
I exhale sharply. She’s impossible. Infuriating. And somehow—still devastating.
“Either you’re hiding something,” I say quietly, “or you’re deliberately trying to push me away.”
Her lips curve, faint and dangerous. “Perhaps I’m doing both.”
I step closer. Too close. Our bodies almost touch, the air between us tight and electric.
“You want a war?” I murmur. “You’ll lose.”
She turns then, fully facing me. Her eyes are steady. Unafraid.
“I lost five years ago,” she says. “Everything after that has been extra.”
The words hit harder than I expect. Hard enough that my chest tightens.
“You think I don’t regret what happened?” I say, my voice low. “You think I don’t replay that night and wonder—”
“Don’t.” Her voice trembles despite her effort to control it. “Don’t pretend this is about regret.”
I swallow.
“You used me,” she continues. “And you walked away.”
The room goes quiet.
There’s no accusation in her tone anymore. Just fact. And somehow, that’s worse.
I look at her—this woman I married, this woman I broke, this woman who’s standing in front of me now like she survived something I never fully understood.
I open my mouth to speak.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she says immediately. Sharp. Final.
She whirls, intent on leaving.
I reach out without thinking and catch her wrist.
She freezes.
“And you think marrying me will fix what you feel?” I ask quietly. “Or does it just make it easier to tear me apart?”
Her breath hitches—not in fear. In anger. In something raw and unguarded.
I see it then. The war inside her. The restraint. The desire she hates. The revenge she clings to.
Before I can stop myself, I cup her jaw, my thumb brushing her skin, forcing her to look at me.
“You want to hurt me,” I murmur. “But you also want this.”
Her denial dies on her lips.
I kiss her.
