Till Buried Lies Do Us Part

CHAPTER 1

Gut Feeling

Gut feeling.

That’s what I rely on these days. Not logic. Just the tight, twisting pull low in my stomach that refuses to be ignored. It was that same fucking gut that made me turn the car around tonight. I was in the back of an Uber, heading to the airport.

Three hours early. I told myself it was responsible. Mature. Efficient.

Really, I think I knew.

The driver had the heat blasting even though it wasn’t cold. The windows were slightly fogged. The city lights blurred past like smeared watercolor. We were already twenty five minutes in.

Five minutes closer to the airport.

Five minutes closer to New York.

To headquarters.

To pretend my life was normal.

My phone buzzed in my hand. A Slack notification from work. Andrew reminding everyone about the conference check-in time. I stared at it like it meant something more.

That’s when it started.

That tightening low in my stomach. The kind that crawls up your spine and whispers, Something’s wrong. I shifted in my seat. I tried to ignore it.

Told myself I was being dramatic. I was just tired. Emotional. Paranoid. But it wouldn’t go away.

It got louder.

He’s home, the voice said. He’s home right now.

My chest tightened. My palms went damp. “Actually…” My voice cracked. “Can you turn around?”

The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “Ma’am?”

“I need to go back. Sorry. I’ll pay extra.”

He hesitated for a second, long enough for me to almost back out, then flipped on his signal. We had driven twenty five minutes away.

Twenty five minutes. And now we were driving twenty five minutes back.

I watched the highway signs reverse themselves like time rewinding.

My heart is pounding harder with every mile closer to home.

I felt crazy. I felt like I was about to ruin my own peace for no reason at all.

That slow, crawling unease. The sense that something was slightly… off.

Completely misaligned. Like a picture frame tilted a fraction too far to the left. I didn’t tell him I’m on my way back of course. I’d kissed him goodbye less than 30 minutes ago, and watched him smile that easy, harmless smile. Go have fun, he’d said.

By the time we pull back into my street, my hands are numb. The house looks the same. The porch light is on. The curtains drawn halfway like always. The hydrangeas I keep forgetting to water drooping slightly to the right.

Nothing looks different.

And yet everything feels wrong.

I step out of the Uber and the air hits me, thick and heavy. The world feels quieter. Like someone turned the volume down. When I reach the front door, time slows.

Not metaphorically. Actually slows. The brass numbers stare back at me.

214. I stand there longer than I should, staring at them like they might rearrange themselves into something else.

Something that makes sense. My heart is beating too fast for someone who is supposedly “just overthinking.” You’re being crazy, I tell myself.

Dramatic. Paranoid.

Just like that other time.

The night I looked through his phone because of this same gnawing feeling. I can still feel it, the tremble in my hands as I scrolled. Calls. Texts. Emails.

Nothing.

No strange names. No late-night messages. No hidden apps. Clean. Too clean.

He’d walked in while I was still holding it. The look on his face, offended. Almost wounded. Like I had betrayed him. He’d grabbed the phone from my hands like I’d contaminated it.

“What are you doing? ,” he’d said. Quiet. Sharp.

And I’d apologized. Of course I had. I always do.

We had makeup sex after. We always do. It’s usually the best. Raw. Desperate. Like he’s trying to prove something. Like I am.

I close my eyes now, standing outside the door, that same gnawing feeling clawing up my spine. You’re crazy, I whisper to myself again. But my hand is already reaching for the knob. No way this feeling means what I’m afraid it means.

Still, I don’t breathe when I turn the handle. Because the thing about gut feelings? They don’t care if you’re ready for the truth.

I finally step inside the house. The air feels wrong, disturbed, like it’s been touched by something it shouldn’t have been. My shoes press against something soft. Fabric. A shirt. Familiar but not mine.

I look up.

Clothes trail up the staircase like breadcrumbs leading to something rotten. A wine glass lies shattered near the wall, red bleeding into the carpet. They didn’t even try to hide it. Didn’t even bother.

My hands start to shake.

And suddenly I’m back there—midnight. The phone ringing. My father’s voice breaking before he can even form the words.

Stage three lupus. Kidney failure. She didn’t make it. That moment when something inside you rips clean out of your chest and leaves nothing but a hollow echo.

Blackness. Silence. A world that keeps moving when yours has stopped. That was the worst pain I had ever known. Until now.

I climb the stairs, though I don’t remember telling my legs to move. The door is open.

And there she is.

On top of him.

Naked skin against naked skin. Her back arched, hair falling over her shoulders like she belongs there. Like this is her house. Her bed. Her life.

She moans his name. The name I used to whisper into his neck. The name I used to say like it meant safety. It sounds wrong in her mouth. Twisted. Stolen.

Then he moans. And my stomach drops because I recognize the sound before I can stop myself.

Dominic.

He’s lying back against the pillows, and all I catch is a fractured glimpse of him through the doorway, like my mind refuses to take in the whole picture at once.

Dark hair, slightly tousled, falling over his forehead.

The sharp line of his jaw flexing. Bare shoulders against white sheets. Both of his hands gripping her waist.

And then—

His eyes. Not soft. Not distracted. Focused.

They’re locked on her like she’s the only thing in the room worth seeing.

Intense. Devouring. The kind of look that makes you feel chosen.

Claimed. I know that look. I’ve felt it on my skin.

Those dark blue eyes used to study me like that, like I was something rare.

Like I was the center of gravity and he had no choice but to orbit.

Now they’re fixed on her. Intentional. Steady. Almost reverent.

And that might be the cruelest part. Not the hands. Not the moans. The way he looks at her. Like he once looked at me. The curve of his mouth parted. The rapid rise of his chest. The familiar slope of muscle along his arm. He looks effortless. Like he belongs there. Like this is easy.

He doesn’t look monstrous. He looks beautiful. And that’s what makes it unbearable. My stomach drops so violently I think I might actually collapse. His hands are on her waist like he’s starving. Like he’s finally tasting something he’s always wanted.

I stop breathing. I imagine walking forward. Grabbing the lamp from the dresser. Swinging it down. Glass shattering. Blood. Screaming. Something breaking loud enough to match what’s happening inside my chest.

But I don’t move.

My feet feel nailed to the floor. Maybe they know the truth before I do.

You don’t belong here anymore.

Tears slide down my face, but I don’t make a sound. My chest aches so badly it feels like a heart attack, sharp, crushing, relentless. I want to scream. I want to tear the room apart. I want him to look at me and feel something. He doesn’t even know I’m here.

I turn around. Each step down the stairs feels like I’m leaving a body behind. The hallway feels longer than it ever has. The light was too bright. My legs move toward the staircase.

One step. Then another.

My hand slides along the banister because I’m not sure my knees will cooperate without it. The house is silent in that thick, suffocating way that makes you hyperaware of your own breathing.

I descend slowly, like if I rush, reality might catch up to me. Halfway down, I swear I can still hear something upstairs. A laugh. A breath. Or maybe it’s just my pulse pounding in my ears. When I reach the bottom step, I pause. The kitchen comes into view.

And there it is. Two coffee mugs sitting exactly where we left them this morning. Mine, with the faint chip on the handle. His, black, no sugar, always too hot.

I walk toward them like I’m approaching a crime scene. This morning. I kissed him right here. Pressed against the counter, my fingers tangled in his hair. I remember the warmth of his mouth, the way he pulled me in closer. He kissed me back harder than usual.

Slower. Like he was holding on. Like some small part of him didn’t want to let go. I remember that flicker in my stomach then, too. That subtle, sour feeling. Something rotten underneath the sweetness.

I ignored it. Of course I did. Because love teaches you how to doubt your own instincts. I stare at his mug now. At the faint imprint on the rim. He kissed me like he meant it.

And I don’t know if that makes this better—

Or so much worse.

I close the door softly behind me. Like I’m the one who did something wrong. Not a slam. Not even a click loud enough to echo. Just the quiet press of wood meeting frame, sealing whatever is happening up in that room away from me.

For a second, my hand stays on the knob.

Steady. Then I walk away from the front door.

From the man who once stood across from me and said ’til death do us part like it was sacred.

From the man I’ve been married to for three years.

The man I met five years ago and thought, stupidly, beautifully, this is it.

The night air feels different as I step off the porch. Colder. Sharper. Like it knows something I don’t yet.

And suddenly I’m somewhere else.

* * *

Another night. Years ago.

Late.

A friend of mine picked me up from my apartment. She promised we’d “just have a drink.” Just one. Just to get out of the house.