LOGAN
The second the front door slammed upstairs, I knew I f****d up.
Not just a mild oversight or a tiny ripple I could fix with the right bouquet or a sultry apology over wine. No. This was a full-blown hurricane dressed in sarcasm and wearing a loose bun, and I had stupidly tossed gasoline into the storm.
I leaned back in my chair, pinched the bridge of my nose, and exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that scratches its way out of your chest like it doesn’t want to leave.
Marcia’s perfume still hung in the air. It was sweet, overbearing, and painfully synthetic, like sugared rot and right across from me, that scent had a name, a face, and legs that had crossed themselves with all the arrogance of someone who thought she’d just won.
Marcia leaned into the backrest, one arm stretched
