Page 34 of The Wright Man

I stiffened, biting back the first response that came to mind. Instead, I said quietly, "He liked you just fine. Until you started treating his daughter like a roommate you can't stand."

That got his attention. His eyes flicked up to mine—flat, unreadable.

"I'm busy."

"You're always busy. And distant. Cold. Passive-aggressive. Have been for a long time."

He scoffed and looked away, like I was being dramatic. Like I hadn't rehearsed this conversation a dozen times and still didn't feel ready.

I tried again, softer. "Gavin... I know things have been rough since..." I trailed off, unable to bring myself to say the words. "Since everything. But the way you've shut me out—"

"Oh, please," he muttered, shaking his head. Revving up for another fight. "Don't put this all on me. Not when you light up for that damn salon more than you ever do for your husband."

My stomach twisted. It's not my fault that the salon had become my safe space when Gavin wasn't anymore.

"That's not fair," I said, barely above a whisper.

He laughed, humorless. "What's not fair is busting my ass to build a life with a woman who only gives a damn about baking and braids." He waved a dismissive hand at the counters, laden with the ingredients I was so excited about moments ago.

He never failed to take a shot at the things that mattered most to me during these fights.

I flinched like he'd slapped me. Not because of what he said—but how easy it was for him to say it. How familiar the venom had become.

"And let's be real," he added, shrugging like it didn't matter, like I wasn't standing there cracking open, "If it wasn't for that damn salon, you'd be baking and braiding for our child right now."

Silence dropped like a stone.

I stared at him. Waiting. Hoping he'd take it back. Rephrase. Apologize.

He didn't.

He twisted the cap back onto his water bottle and started toward the stairs.

"Gavin—" I hated the way my voice cracked before he cut me off.

"I've got a thing with Boyd and Theo tomorrow," he said over his shoulder as he headed upstairs. Something about those names snagged at the back of my mind, vague and distant, but I was too hollowed out to chase it. "Tell your dad I said Happy Birthday."

And then he was gone.

Just like that.

Like he hadn't just ripped open the deepest, most painful wound I had, and left me here bleeding into the cake batter.

The silence that followed was thick and ugly. Familiar.

I leaned against the counter, blinking fast. My chest felt tight. My throat burned.

I hated that he could still hurt me. That he knew where to aim. That I let him.

My hand trembled as I reached for the eggs.

But I didn't cry. Didn't move. Didn't breathe.

Four years.

Four pregnancies.

No baby.