ALEXANDER
Her face freezes.
She doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t need to.
The small green bottle sits in my palm. I turn it slowly, watching the dark liquid shift inside — unhurried, almost gentle, as though it isn’t the thing that nearly ended me. Someone delivered it to my door minutes ago. No name. No note. Just this, placed in my hand like a verdict.
I had hoped, when I first looked at it, that I was wrong.
I had told myself there was another explanation. That the woman currently warm in my bed — the one who had just let me back in after everything — couldn’t have been the one. I had bargained with myself the way desperate men do, trading logic for the version of reality I wanted most.
Because for a few hours tonight, I had almost believed we were going to be alright.
That is th
