It’s not just Rebecca’s allegations coming back around.
It’s worse.
It’s lies twisted just enough to be believable.
I swing my legs off the bed and scrub a hand down my face. The room feels smaller. Heavier.
A sucker punch always lands before you know to brace.
Last night flashes through me without warning.
The balcony where we kissed. The way Lila looked at me like she wasn’t performing. The softness of her mouth. The way I saidmy wifeand meant protect, meant mine, meant stay.
I exhale slowly.
Hope is a dangerous thing to let yourself feel right before the ground gives out.
My phone buzzes again. A link this time. Headline in all caps.
I don’t open it.
I already know how this goes.
The world doesn’t do nuance. It does villains and victims. And it loves recycling monsters.
What makes my stomach turn isn’t the idea of my name trending. It’s the idea of hers being pulled down with me.
Because they won’t keep it separate. They never do. They’ll drag her into this, frame her smile beside my face, ask what kind of woman marries a man like me.
I think of the way she looked at me last night. Unguarded.
Safe.
I drop the phone onto the mattress like it’s contaminated.
I should text her.
Something normal. Something steady.
But all I can see is my mess bleeding into her morning. My headlines messing up her calm. Her waking up to my dirt before coffee.
I can’t do that to her.
Not today.
I stand and start getting dressed, movements sharp and efficient. Armor back on. No softness allowed.
I tell myself this news cycle is temporary. It'll blow over. They always do.
Still, as I pull on my jacket, one thought won’t leave me alone.
I let myself hope last night.
And now the world is about to punish me for it.
***
By midmorning, I’m sitting in a glass conference room that smells like burnt coffee and expensive restraint.
