And I’ve got it now.
My phone burns in my pocket like it knows what I’m thinking.
Micah’s message.
The one that came through hours ago while she was sleeping next to me like she belonged there.
Like she never left.
I pull it out again, even though I’ve already read it.
Twice.
Three times.
Doesn’t matter.
It still hits the same.
Paul.
That fucking piece of shit.
Not just a liar.
Not just a manipulator.
A stalker.
A sick fuck coveting what wasn’t his.
Twisted.
Every message, every detail Micah dug up paints a picture I don’t want to see—but can’t ignore.
Paul had some serious fucking issues.
He’d been watching Esme.
Tracking my wife.
Fixated.
Even back then.
Even when I trusted him with everything.
With her.
My stomach turns.
“My wife,” I mutter, the words coming out rough, possessive, undeniable.
Because that’s what she is.
Whether or not it’s legal.
Or technical.
