Chapter 1
Billie
Ididn’t mean to show up so late. I’d just left a study group at the library, my brain fried from stats and caffeine, and realized my phone was dying. Figured I’d swing by Nate’s to grab the charger I left last night — he was supposed to be home, icing his shoulder and laying low before his weekend media circuit.
The elevator felt like it moved through molasses, every ding between floors dragging out the tension already coiling in my gut. I told myself I was just tired. That everything was fine.
But when I stepped inside, the vibe was wrong.
The lights were low and golden — not the harsh LED whites he always swore helped him “stay locked in.” A window was cracked, letting in the muffled sounds of downtown. Someone had lit one of those stupid woodsy candles he hated.
My sneakers squeaked against the tile as I kicked them off.
“Nate?” I called out, my voice slicing through the stillness.
No answer.
The TV was off. Strange, considering he usually fell asleep to game replays or highlight reels. The silence pressed in. The air smelled wrong — perfume, sugary and clinging, something toosweet and heavy for this late at night. Not mine. Not neutral. Like it had been sprayed in a rush.
Then I saw it. A hoodie thrown near the sofa, slouched and crumpled. Not his; I’d never seen that pale pink before. I stooped, stared at it like maybe it would explain itself. A tag stuck out. Some boutique brand I knew he would never wear.
Also, extremely feminine.
Something in my chest twitched. I told myself it was nothing, maybe a friend crashing after a late night. Nate had plenty of those. But that perfume… it clung too close to the doorway leading down the short hallway.
Then laughter — a woman’s. Soft, muffled, someplace behind his bedroom door.
I froze. My hand still gripped my phone, thumb pressing uselessly at the black screen. The laugh came again, higher this time, and then his voice, low and teasing. A pulse beat in my jaw like it wanted out.
I didn’t breathe. I didn’t knock. The handle felt cold when I pushed it down.
The door swung open slow, hinges whining.
Nate turned first. He was propped up in bed, a grin half-finished on his mouth. The sheet tangled around his waist. Her hair spilled over his arm, bright against his skin. They looked caught mid-movie, some private joke just hanging there.
The woman screamed, yanked the sheet up to her chin, eyes wide.
Nate didn’t even flinch. He groaned and dragged a hand down his face.
“Fuck, Billie, what are you doing here?”
My throat burned. I couldn’t move. The room seemed to tilt.
He looked bored, like I’d interrupted a commercial.
She shifted beside him, whispering something I couldn’t catch. Her fingers clutched the fabric like it might hide her from what she’d walked into.
He stretched, bare shoulders rolling, then squinted at me. “You gonna stand there all night?”
I wanted to laugh, or scream, or both. All that came out was his name. “Nate.” It sounded foreign, flat.
He smirked. “You forget we’re not married, right?”
“You told me you were home, resting.”
“Guess I changed my plans.”
That perfume clogged the air now. He knew I hated it — it triggered migraines. He used to fling open windows when I even mentioned it.
