Page 162 of The Wright Man

Meanwhile, this man—this fucking man—had been sticking his dick in his secretary for who knows how long. Probably in our bed. While I cried myself to sleep. While I booked therapy sessions he never went to. While I blamed myself for a marriage he set on fire and dared me to rebuild with my bare hands.

I felt the switch flip. The rage come to life like an engine.

"You piece of shit," I whispered.

Gavin started to say something, maybe a defense, maybe a sorry, maybe a lie—who knows. I didn't give a fuck.

"You piece of absolute, worthless, lying, no-dick-having shit!" I screamed.

I shoved him back into the room, stormed past Jasmine like she didn't exist, and started swinging. Not fists — words. Every sharp-edged thought I'd swallowed for the past four years came out of me like venom.

"All this time I've been begging you to love me, begging you to touch me, praying you'd give me the smallest goddamn crumb of attention, and this is where it's been going? To her?!"

Jasmine blinked, folding her arms across her belly with that smug, glassy-eyed expression I'd seen her wear at every holiday party.

"I know about the miscarriages," she said, voice steady. Almost bored. "I know you two haven't been intimate in over a year. He told me everything, sweetie. There's nothing here that's a surprise."

I stared at her. The audacity of it — him laying my grief out like receipts, like evidence for why she was the better option. Like my loss was a justification.

"Shut the entire fuck up." I snapped, rounding on her. "Don't get it twisted — I might be too classy to hit a pregnant woman, but my crazy-ass sister definitely isn't. And she carries Vaseline and a switchblade in her purse."

Jasmine's mouth clicked shut, finally looking unsure of herself. Good.

Gavin reached toward me, saying "Angie," like it was supposed to mean something. Like it still had power.

And then—before I could cuss him out again—came the voice that shattered every single ounce of fury in my chest.

"...Daddy?"

I froze.

Everything stopped.

My fists unclenched. My shoulders slumped. My breath left me.

I turned, slowly, blinking through the haze of fury.

My heart cracked clean in half.

No. No fucking way.

A little boy—a toddler, really—rounded the corner from the bedroom, tiny fist rubbing his eyes, face creased with sleep. His pajamas were printed with cartoon sharks. His curls were soft and damp. He waddled, then grabbed onto Gavin's leg, burying his face in the back of his calf like he did it all the time.

And he looked at me.

And I saw it.

He had Gavin's whole damn face. His hazel eyes. His light brown skin. His jaw, his nose.

He looked like her.

Like my Maleeka.

I couldn't breathe. My throat closed up so tight it felt like it might snap.

He looked like the baby I kissed goodbye before I even had the chance to say hello. He looked like the dream I carried and the grief I swallowed. Like the face I'd spent years trying to forget but never could.

The wound Maleek had just helped me start to heal, split wide open again, raw and fresh and howling.