I don’t have to tell her why. Because she knows. She knowseverything—from his apologies, to his alcoholism. Even the tiny confession he made in the car when we drove to the farmhouse.
“Ugh,fuck. Fine!” she groans. “I’ll gocheck on Lucifer. But you go to bed. And get those ugly-ass slippers off our bed.”
She starts stripping off her lehenga while huffing like she’s been personally wronged by fate. I carefully put the slippers on the floor next to me.
“They’re not ugly,” I whimper into the duvet.
“They look like two hamsters who died and came back as footwear.”
Despite everything, I let out a watery laugh.
But my head’s pounding. My eyes ache. The kind of tired that isn’t just physical—it’s in my bones, behind my ribs, weighing down every breath.
I barely register the sound of her changing. The soft ruffle of sheets. I’m already tucking myself under the duvet like a burrito of heartbreak.
The lights click off.
The door clicks shut.
And I promptly pass out.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Lucian
I’ve calmed down a little.
And bycalmed down,I mean I’m no longer dry heaving into the toilet bowl.
My body feels like it’s been through a war—like I’m nursing the worst hangover of my life without a single drop of alcohol.Fuck.
I can’t unsee it.
Iwantto.God, I want to. But I can’t get the image out of my head.Her. With him.
And then, because I’m a masochist apparently, I remember that I’ve given her far worse images—memories she probably wishes she could rip from her skull.
Fuck.
I brace myself against the bathroom sink, staring at my reflection as I brush my teeth. My eyes are rimmed in red, glassy, like I’ve been crying. I don’t even know if I have.
I don’t remember how long the panic attack lasted.
I don’t remember the walk back across the courtyard—just scattered flashes of too-bright lights stabbing through the pounding behind my eyes. Everything felt warped. Unsteady.Loud.
I think I was squinting the whole way.
Then I was here. Back in the room. Bathroom. Toilet.
The moment the door shut behind me, my knees gave out and I was on the tile floor, convulsing like my lungs were trying to claw their way out of my chest. The dread hit like a fist. The nausea followed.
It’s not justheartbreak.
It’s knowing Ideserveevery second of this.
And still not knowing how the hell to survive it.
I manage to half-crawl, half-walk to my bed, sitting on the edge and clutching my head when a knock rattles the door.
