Chapter 7
My apartment feels like a forensic set. Seventy feet of cold, floor-to-ceiling glass lines the living room.
The air carries a trace of ozone, like the moment right after lightning strikes.
Furniture sits in shades of ash—charcoal leather couch, slate-gray armchair—pressed into austere angles.
I leave the dimmer at its lowest setting so that, at nine p.m., the room feels less like home and more like an observation deck orbiting a dead planet.
Lawrence stands in the entryway, shoulders hunched under the harsh overhead lamp.
He looks smaller here, as if the wide expanse of emptiness around him is already stealing his height.
The cologne he wore at dinner has given way to the raw, sour sweat along his collar.
His Adam’s apple bobs, and his palms flex against his thighs, leaving faint white creases on his pants.
“Veronica,” he rasps, voice rough as gravel, “about dinner.”
I’m already at the island, fingers brushing cool stainless steel as I grab the whiskey bottle.
The glass makes a hollow thunk when I set it down.
I pour two measures, neat, amber liquid swirling with lazy resistance before I slide one glass across the counter.
It strikes the granite with a deliberate clink that echoes between us.
“Dinner was only the beginning,” I say, voice low enough that I feel the vibration in my chest. “Here, we lay it all out.”
He lifts the glass, his hand shaking. He brings it to his lips, misses, and smacks his front tooth. Tremoring, he sets it back down without taking a sip.
“Look,” he starts, his exhalation quivering, “if you want to talk about it—”
“I don’t want to talk,” I cut in, setting my glass down so deliberately it almost hurts my palm. I tap the rim with my thumbnail. “I want to listen. Tell me about that weekend in March.”
“The one where you and her both claimed to be ‘out of town, separately.’ But your GPS pinged the same boutique hotel. Room 418. Start there.”
His face drains of blood until he’s a man carved from pale stone. “Jesus. You—are you spying on me?”
A slow smile curves my lips. “You taught me well.”
He tries to straighten, dignity crumpling like tissue under his gaze. “That’s fucked up, Veronica.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Is it?” My fingertips ghost over the cool quartz countertop. He flinches, and I savor the way control flickers through his widened eyes.
Beads of sweat roll down his temple, leaving damp trails on his collarbone. This time, he drains half his whiskey in one swallow; the glass smacks against the granite as he drops it. “We didn’t mean for it to happen. It just did.”
“Of course,” I echo, making air quotes so precise they cleave the air. “It always just happens.” He recoils, as though I’ve throttled him with invisible wire.
The carefully constructed man I knew collapses. He slides off the couch, knees hitting the polished concrete with a muted crack. The floor is cold beneath his jeans, a shock to his body that makes him gasp. He looks up at me—eyes wide, lips parted, pure raw terror.
“P-Please, Veronica, please don’t leave me. I’ll do anything. I’ll quit my job. I’ll never speak to her again. I’ll go to therapy. I’ll—” His words tumble out, choked, rehearsed. “I love you. I never stopped loving you. Just tell me what you want.”
He reaches, not for my hand but for the hem of my dress. His fingertips clutch the fabric like a drowning man grabbing driftwood.
I look down at him, this ruined man, his jaw slack, shoulders shaking in confession. My pulse is steady; my heart, cool. I let him grovel.
While he talks, I reach for my phone on the counter. The light catches on the screen, the glow pale against the dark marble. His voice is background noise now—pleas blurring into one long exhale of guilt. I unlock my phone, thumb hovering over her name.
You should come by. He’s here.
Send.
The message disappears. I set the phone facedown beside the glass, and his sobs keep spilling into the silence like they never stopped.
On cue, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He ignores it.
“Isabella?” I ask.
He lifts his head, lashes damp. “She’s probably freaking out.”
“About what?”
“About you. About me. About everything,” he says in a hollow voice.
I lean back, feeling the smooth resistance of quartz under my hip. The seconds settle heavily between us. Evidence, suspicion, years of half-truths—all hang in the stale air.
“You know what the worst part is?” I murmur.
He lifts his chin, hope flickering in his glassy stare. “What?”
“It’s not even original.” I trace a finger around the rim of my glass. “Every excuse, every ‘it just happened,’ it’s all so ordinary.”
He scrubs at his face with trembling fingers. “I know I fucked up. But I can fix it. We aren’t in love.”
His plea is so stereotypical I almost supply the next line for him. I watch the soft overhead lamp catch the sheen of sweat on his brow, the tiny tremor in his Adam’s apple, the way his knuckles go white when he curls his fist around my dress. I step backward, letting him fall to all fours.
“You have to know, she doesn’t matter. I don’t even know why I did it,” he says, voice ragged.
I nod once. “That’s always the hardest part to admit.”
He stops dead, and for a moment the city’s glow behind me flickers on his face—hope, regret, shame—all mingling in the amber wash of streetlights. “I love you. I do. Please don’t throw it away.”
I let the silence bloom. It fills the apartment like mist, pressing every truth into the open.
Then I smile. Not a wide grin, just a thin slash of control. “Isabella will be here any minute.”
His eyes go wide, and then he jumps to his feet. “What?”
I flip my phone around so he can see the last message on my lock screen. “On my way!”
He staggers back, as though the walls themselves have shifted under him. “You can’t be serious.”
“My phone doesn’t lie.”
He glances at the door, then back at me, dread twisting his features. “What are you going to do?”
“Nothing,” I reply. “You’re going to do it for me.”
He opens his mouth, maybe to run, maybe to plead more, but the doorbell intervenes with a sharp chime that rattles his spine. He jerks. I don’t.
I walk to the door, each step measured, heels clicking against the hardwood threshold. I pause, take a breath that tastes of whiskey and finality, then turn back once. He is standing with his hair lank, shirt damp, face ashen.
For a flicker of a heartbeat, I almost pity him. But he gets what he deserves, so I step forward and open the door.
Isabella stands there, skin pale under the hallway light, eyes ringed with exhaustion. She holds her phone in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. Steam rises from the cup, carrying the bitter scent of early wakefulness.
Our eyes meet. I’m not even sure if she sees Lawrence yet.
“Come in,” I say, voice as warmly as I can muster.
She steps inside, and the door clicks shut behind her. The reckoning begins.