He thought that would be the end of it. The scare was too close. But it wasn't the end. It was the needle in the vein.
Within a week, he was waking up at 2:00 AM. He would slide out of bed, leaving Sarah warm and sleeping, and creep down to the basement where Emily had set up a "studio."
They fucked on the concrete floor. They fucked in the laundry room. They fucked in his car.
It became a sickness.
Sarah was water—essential, pure, life-giving. He needed her to survive. He loved her.
But Emily? Emily was air. And you can go days without water, but you can't go minutes without air. He was suffocating, and she was the only oxygen he could find.
Sitting in the motel room, Harrison put his head in his hands.
"I would give anything," he sobbed into the empty room. "I would give anything to go back to the moment before I dropped the knife."
But he knew, deep down in the dark rot of his soul, that if he went back... he would probably do it again.
Chapter Seven
Emily
The automatic doors of the boutique slid open, and Emily stepped out onto the sidewalk, the midday sun hitting her oversized sunglasses. She adjusted the grip on her shopping bags—three glossy, heavy bags from the few high-end stores that were still open in this part of town.
Retail therapy was a cliché, but it worked. New clothes for a new life.
She scanned the line of cars parked along the curb until she found Harrison’s sedan. He was sitting in the driver’s seat, staring blankly through the windshield at a brick wall, his hands gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were white.
He looked wrecked. He hadn't slept, and he hadn't shaved. To anyone passing by, he looked like a man whose life had just imploded.
Emily smiled softly, adjusting her purse on her shoulder. She knew he was hurting. She knew he felt like a villain right now. But that was only because he was still deprogramming himself from the Cult of Sarah. He was going through withdrawal from his "perfect life," and withdrawals were always ugly.
But she wasn't worried. She loved him enough for both of them.
She walked toward the car slowly, enjoying the click of her heels on the pavement. People looked at her—at the bags, at her chaotic hair, at the man waiting for her—and probably saw a mess. They saw a mistress, a homewrecker. But they didn't knowthe history. They didn't know the timeline.
I saw him first, she thought fiercely, pausing by the passenger door to look at him through the glass. I loved him first.
The humid air reminded her of San Diego. That summer, the air had tasted like salt and possibilities. Harrison hadn't been a project manager then; he had been a force of nature. They had burned so bright she thought they would turn into ash.
She regretted letting him go. God, she regretted it every day.
But she had been twenty-two. She was getting bookings. Her face was in magazines. She didn't want a husband; she wanted the world. She thought Harrison was just a chapter, a beautiful detour on her way to superstardom.
Then came the fall. Her agent’s embezzlement scandal. The blacklisting. The phone stopped ringing. The parties stopped.
She had come back to the Midwest with her tail between her legs, terrified of poverty. That was why she said yes to Michael.
Michael was safe. Michael was old money. He was a portfolio, not a person.
She remembered looking at the engagement ring Michael gave her—a flawless three-carat cushion cut—and feeling absolutely nothing. He was a hobby. A placeholder. A way to keep the lights on and the clothes expensive.
But then... Sarah had to ruin it. Sarah had to bring him back.
When Sarah and Harrison moved into the estate, it was like someone had pumped oxygen into a room where Emily had been slowly suffocating.
Living with them was exquisite torture. Every morning, watching Harrison drink coffee in his boxers. Every night, hearingthe muffled sounds of their TV through the wall.
She watched Sarah "care" for him. Sarah with her meal prep. Sarah with her color-coded calendars. Sarah treated Harrison like a pet project, something to be managed and optimized.
