Chapter 10
After I kick Satan and his teenage mistress out, him in nothing but boxers, her in my goddamn bedsheet clutching her clothes, I slam the door. Then I pause, yank it back open, and chuck his car keys out onto the lawn.
But not before I take the house key off the ring. Because I’m angry, not stupid.
I stand there for a second, just breathing like I might spontaneously combust if I don’t. Watching them fumble across the yard like some half-naked, shame-drenched walk of sin. She’s holding the sheet like it’s armour. He doesn’t even look back. Probably too busy wondering if I’ll torch his car.
His taillights disappear down the street.
Jesus. He slept with a girl he’s known since she was a kid.
He slept with my sister. I don’t know why I still can’t wrap my head around it.
Maybe because somewhere deep inside the rotted ruins of me, I still thought he had a line.
Even when I thought it was McKenna, HIS coworker, I had doubts.
But Keira? My baby sister with the glitter pens and panic attacks?
God. I need a drink .
I march into the kitchen with all the grace of a war-torn banshee, open the cabinet and grab the first bottle of wine I see. Cabernet. Expensive. For happy occasions, how fitting.
I rip the cork out with my teeth. Okay, I try before grabbing the corkscrew. But the vibe is there.
No glass. I drink straight from the bottle like a goddamn cliché. My lips stain red. Good. Let the whole world see what betrayal tastes like.
The tile feels cold under my heels. My throat burns. My heart? It’s just… quiet. Like it packed a bag and left my body twenty minutes ago.
I lean against the counter and slide to the floor, wine clutched like a lifeline. My breath hitches. My mascara’s probably halfway to my chin. Somewhere, in the distant horror-movie echo chamber that is my brain, I hear Hans saying, “Don’t tell anyone.”
God, Hans. You were right. You bastard. And I was stupid. So, so stupid.
I thought Mike would never. I thought I’d distanced myself enough, that it wouldn’t hurt. I never thought he’d ruin me like this .
But he did. And the worst part? It still doesn’t feel real.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand, wine sloshing onto my white top. Fuck it. Let it stain. Let it all stain.
I grab my phone out of my pocket, thumbs drunk on adrenaline and heartbreak, and open the camera roll.
There it is. That disgusting, blurry little masterpiece. My husband. My sister. The Pornhub-reject soundtrack of betrayal.
I don’t even hesitate. I hit share and type “I know for sure”. No punctuation. Just those four jumbled little words because my fingers aren’t exactly cooperating and my brain is somewhere in a dark corner screaming into a pillow.
I meant to send it to Hans. I’m almost sure I did. I think. Maybe.
It’s fine. Who cares. I’m sitting on the kitchen floor halfway through a bottle of Cabernet. My clothes are wrinkled, my eyeliner’s having a midlife crisis down my cheeks, and I’m definitely on the fast track to emotional rock bottom.
And then- A knock at the door .
Nope. I don’t move. Can’t move. My feet are glued to the tile and my spine’s apparently gone on strike.
A few minutes pass.
Footsteps. Upstairs.
Wait… what?
I blink, staring at the kitchen door like it might sprout teeth and explain what the hell is happening.
Then someone walks in. And it’s Hannah.
Hannah.
“Hi,” I slur, eyes blinking slowly like I’m buffering. “What you doin’ here, lady.?” I giggle, the sound cracked and borderline feral.
She doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at me with this weird mix of concern and exasperation, crouching down like I’m a rabid animal she’s trying not to spook.
“You left your bedroom window open. I got your text,” she says. “Not sure I needed the visual, but I’m guessing neither did you.”
I blink again. “What text?”
Her eyebrows knit. “The video. Of Mike. And… Keira. ”
My jaw drops a little. Not dramatically, but enough to make the air feel colder.
Wait.
“What?” I croak. “I-I sent it to you?”
Hannah nods, and I swear the world tilts on its axis.
“I meant Hans!” I gasp, then burst into this maniacal giggle that quickly turns into a full-body laugh. “Oh my God, I don’t even have Hans’ number!”
The laughter spills out of me like wine from a knocked-over glass. I’m wheezing. Cackling. Crumbling. And then- I’m sobbing.
Ugly, hiccupy, shoulder-shaking sobs that make my whole body hurt.
Hannah doesn’t say a word. She just lowers herself onto the floor beside me, wraps her arms around me like I won’t break if she holds on tight enough, and lets me cry into her shirt while I cling to the wine bottle like it’s the only thing that hasn’t betrayed me.
Her arms are warm. That’s the first thing I register.
Not judgmental. Not stiff or awkward. Just warm, like a real human anchor in the middle of my personal hellscape .
She smells like lavender and espresso and something faintly citrusy, and suddenly I’m acutely aware that I smell like betrayal and desperation and wine.
She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t try to slap a band-aid over the gaping wound in my chest with some Pinterest-worthy quote. She just holds me like I’m not completely unhinged and snotting on her designer clothes.
I cry into her like it’s the only thing left I know how to do. Loud, ugly sobs that hitch in my throat and come out in wet gasps. My fingers are still clenched around the neck of the wine bottle like I’m gearing up to use it in a bar fight. Or maybe just finish it. Whichever comes first.
“I’m fine,” I lie into her collarbone. It comes out all slurry and wet. “Totally, like, functioning adult behaviour. Just a lil’ breakdown. Tiny one. Blink and you miss it.”
Hannah says nothing. Just tightens her grip. Her cheek rests on my hair.
“I kicked them out,” I whisper eventually. “Him. Her. Satan and… Satan Lite. She didn’t even put on pants. Just dragged the sheet out like a whorey little ghost.”
There’s a pause.
Then Hannah murmurs, “Was it your good sheet?”
I let out a watery laugh that turns into a sob halfway through. “My favourite one. The one with the linen blend and the tiny flowers. She sexed on my floral linen, Hannah.”
“That bitch,” she breathes, deadly serious.
I lose it. Full hysterics. Laughing and crying and hiccupping while I smear mascara tears down her very expensive outfit. I’m a mess. A wine-soaked, grief-feral, mascara-streaked mess. And she holds me anyway.
“Do you want to shower?” she asks gently, brushing a hand down my tangled hair, after my tears dry. “Or, like, burn all his clothes?”
“Yes,” I croak. “To both. And then pizza. And then maybe more arson.”
“Perfect,” she says, already reaching for her phone. “I’ll grab the matches.”
God, I don’t deserve her.
We get up like we’re rising from the ashes, except I’m more gremlin than phoenix. My limbs creak, my balance is shot, and I move like a drunk cartoon character who just walked into a wall of emotions face-first.
Hannah, calm as ever, gently pries the wine bottle out of my death grip. It’s like watching a zookeeper disarm a raccoon. “Okay, Medea. Let’s shower before the arson. Hydrate before homicide. ”
She gives me a little push toward the stairs and I go, mostly because she’s right and also because I’m too emotionally bankrupt to argue.
I make it halfway up before I remember.
The bed. That bed. The one with the traitor sheets and the even more traitorous memories. Where my husband; and yes, the word still tastes like bile; had sex with my sister like he didn’t make vows to me, like we didn’t build a whole damn life.
I step into the doorway, and it hits me like a gut punch. I don’t even see them anymore, just echoes. Her moaning. His hand gripping her hip. My own yells ricocheting around the room like grenades that never stopped exploding.
Nope. Nope, nope, absolutely not.
I turn around so fast I nearly trip over my own feet.
I’m halfway down the hall again when Hannah appears, moving up the stairs like a goddess sent to manage my meltdown. She takes one look at my face; whatever horror show of grief and disgust I’m currently wearing; and doesn’t ask a single thing.
“Guest room,” she says firmly, already veering past me. “You’re not showering in there. I’ll get your stuff.”
And just like that, she disappears into the room I can’t even look at, braver than me, quieter than me, strong in the way I used to pretend I was .
I stumble into the guest bathroom and brace myself against the sink. My reflection stares back at me; smudged mascara, red-rimmed eyes, blotchy cheeks. A woman cracked open. A woman who finally saw the truth and didn’t look away.
I turn on the shower. The sound of water drowns out the silence that’s been howling in my ears since I walked in on my life falling apart.
Steam fills the room.
I step under the spray and let it burn.
Not hot. Scalding.
Because maybe if I melt my skin off, I’ll stop feeling like he ever touched me at all .