Chapter 1
Selene
The wine glass shatters against the wall, burgundy liquid running down white paint like blood.
David stares at me, mouth hanging open, his perfectly pressed khakis now splattered with a sixty-dollar Malbec.
For three years, he's never seen me raise my voice, let alone throw things.
I’ve always been the good girl.
The trauma survivor.
The one who needs to be handled with care.
"Selene, honey, you're not thinking clearly?—"
"Don't." I grab another glass from his pristine kitchen counter, just to watch him flinch. "Don't 'honey' me. Don't tell me what I'm thinking. And definitely don't look at me like I'm about to break."
"But you are breaking." He takes a cautious step forward, hands raised like I'm a spooked animal. "This isn't you. Ever since the anniversary of your parents?—"
"Stop." The word comes out sharp enough to cut. "This isn't about them."
Except it is.
Everything is.
Every safe choice, every suffocating day, every moment I've spent in this beige apartment with this beige man living this beige life—it all traces back to that night eight years ago.
The night I learned that safety is an illusion, and control is the only thing that matters.
"I'm done," I say, setting the glass down with deliberate calm. "We're done."
"Selene, please. We can work through this. Dr. Morrison says?—"
"I don't give a fuck what Dr. Morrison says." The profanity feels good on my tongue, foreign but right. David actually gasps. "I quit therapy this morning. I'm quitting this relationship now. I'm quitting everything that keeps me in this bubble-wrapped existence you all seem to think I need."
I move toward the door, but he grabs my wrist.
Not hard—David would never—but it's the first time he's touched me without asking in months.
My body reacts before my mind does, twisting out of his grip with a violence that surprises us both.
"Don't touch me."
"I'm trying to help you!" His voice cracks. "Selene, you're spiraling. This is exactly what Dr. Morrison warned about. Trauma survivors sometimes?—"
"Trauma survivor." I laugh, and it's not a nice sound. "Is that what I am? Is that my whole identity? The girl whose parents were murdered?"
His silence is answer enough.
"You don't seeme," I say, gathering my purse, my jacket. "You see a victim. A project. Someone to save with yourpsychology degree and your gentle hands and your missionary position sex twice a month."
He flinches at that.
Good.
"That's not fair?—"
