I tried to listen to the chef, I really did.
He stood at the end of the long mahogany table, explaining each course in detail, his voice smooth and practiced, the kind of tone meant to fill a silence too awkward to bear. But it didn’t matter how many fancy dishes he listed — the only thing I could hear was the low, velvety laughter that kept coming from Brooklyn’s throat. Every sound she made felt like a fist to my chest.
Every second Max touched her, I felt that same cold, crawling rage climb up my spine. The way his hand brushed her wrist when he leaned in. The way she tilted her head slightly when he whispered something in her ear. The way she smiled back at him — that smile. The one she used to give me when she woke up tangled in my sheets, her hair a mess, her eyes soft and warm. Th
