The night I looked through his phone because of this same gnawing feeling. I can still feel it, the tremble in my hands as I scrolled. Calls. Texts. Emails.
Nothing.
No strange names. No late-night messages. No hidden apps. Clean. Too clean.
He’d walked in while I was still holding it. The look on his face, offended. Almost wounded. Like I had betrayed him. He’d grabbed the phone from my hands like I’d contaminated it.
“What are you doing? ,” he’d said. Quiet. Sharp.
And I’d apologized. Of course I had. I always do.
We had makeup sex after. We always do. It’s usually the best. Raw. Desperate. Like he’s trying to prove something. Like I am.
I close my eyes now, standing outside the door, that same gnawing feeling clawing up my spine. You’re crazy, I whisper to myself again. But my hand is already reaching for the knob. No way this feeling means what I’m afraid it means.
Still, I don’t breathe when I turn the handle. Because the thing about gut feelings? They don’t care if you’re ready for the truth.
I finally step inside the house. The air feels wrong, disturbed, like it’s been touched by something it shouldn’t have been. My shoes press against something soft. Fabric. A shirt. Familiar but not mine.
I look up.
Clothes trail up the staircase like breadcrumbs leading to something rotten. A wine glass lies shattered near the wall, red bleeding into the carpet. They didn’t even try to hide it. Didn’t even bother.
My hands start to shake.
And suddenly I’m back there—midnight. The phone ringing. My father’s voice breaking before he can even form the words.
Stage three lupus. Kidney failure. She didn’t make it. That moment when something inside you rips clean out of your chest and leaves nothing but a hollow echo.
Blackness. Silence. A world that keeps moving when yours has stopped. That was the worst pain I had ever known. Until now.
I climb the stairs, though I don’t remember telling my legs to move. The door is open.
And there she is.
On top of him.
Naked skin against naked skin. Her back arched, hair falling over her shoulders like she belongs there. Like this is her house. Her bed. Her life.
She moans his name. The name I used to whisper into his neck. The name I used to say like it meant safety. It sounds wrong in her mouth. Twisted. Stolen.
Then he moans. And my stomach drops because I recognize the sound before I can stop myself.
Dominic.
He’s lying back against the pillows, and all I catch is a fractured glimpse of him through the doorway, like my mind refuses to take in the whole picture at once. Dark hair, slightly tousled, falling over his forehead. The sharp line of his jaw flexing. Bare shoulders against white sheets. Both of his hands gripping her waist.
And then—
His eyes. Not soft. Not distracted. Focused.
They’re locked on her like she’s the only thing in the room worth seeing. Intense. Devouring. The kind of look that makes you feel chosen. Claimed. I know that look. I’ve felt it on my skin. Those dark blue eyes used to study me like that, like I was something rare. Like I was the center of gravity and he had no choice but to orbit.
Now they’re fixed on her. Intentional. Steady. Almost reverent.
And that might be the cruelest part. Not the hands. Not the moans. The way he looks at her. Like he once looked at me. The curve of his mouth parted. The rapid rise of his chest. The familiar slope of muscle along his arm. He looks effortless. Like he belongs there. Like this is easy.
He doesn’t look monstrous. He looks beautiful. And that’s what makes it unbearable. My stomach drops so violently I think I might actually collapse. His hands are on her waist like he’s starving. Like he’s finally tasting something he’s always wanted.
