Page 99 of The Wright Man

Gavin's jaw twitched.

"Shut up and drink your beer, Boyd," he said casually, but his face told the real story. That tension? It wasn't new. He hated that I kept my name. It was one of our first real arguments. And it never fully left us alone.

I swallowed a scream.

"Can I see you in the foyer, please?" I said to Gavin, sweetly. Too sweetly.

He swaggered over, sipping from his beer like this was all so charming. Like I was being unreasonable for interrupting his night.

"Wassup, babe?"

I could've slapped the smirk off his face.

"What the fuck are your friends doing here?" I hissed, low enough that Theo and Boyd couldn't hear me over their hyena cackling.

Gavin shrugged, all wide-eyed innocence. "It's boys' night. I told you."

"Yes," I said, gripping the edge of the counter to keep from throwing the lamp at his head. "You told me you had plans. Not that they were here. I told you I was having my sisters over. Here."

He waved it off. "You didn't say it was tonight."

I stared at him.

"It's Sunday," I said, voice rising. "I always spend time with my sisters on Sunday."

"Well, I already invited the guys. What was I supposed to do? Cancel?"

Yes. Obviously. That's what grown men do when they realize they've double-booked themselves and are on the verge of getting verbally decapitated by their fed-up wives.

He took one final sip, set his empty bottle on the counter, and popped open another before saying, "It's not a big deal. We can all just chill together."

I blinked.

"You sure about that?" I said. "You wanna spend a whole night with you, them—" I pointed toward Theo and Boyd, who were now trying to imitate whatever knockout move just happened on screen, "—and my sisters? You wanna see our house burned to the ground?"

He smirked.

"What's the problem?" he said, calm as ever. "Nothing you can do with them that you can't do in front of me, right?"

He said it like a challenge.

Like a dare.

Then he took his beer and strolled right back to the couch.

I saw red.

I didn't throw anything. Yet.

I didn't scream. Yet.

I took a deep breath, turned on my heel, and climbed the stairs with every muscle in my body tense.

He did this on purpose. He wanted this conflict. Wanted to mark his territory, control the narrative, insert himself into something sacred and make it about him.

I stomped up the stairs with murder on my mind.

I didn't slam the door when I got to the bedroom, but it took everything in me not to. I just closed it with a slow, tense click that felt louder than a scream. And then I threw myself face-first into the nearest pillow and did scream.