Exit wounds

THREE: THE LIE BEHIND THE LOCK SCREEN

The next morning started with his phone.

Not because I was snooping.

Not because I was looking for anything.

God, I didn’t even want to know.

It just lit up.

He was in the shower. I was folding laundry, pretending not to feel how quiet the room had gotten lately.

Then it buzzed.

Twice.

I wouldn’t have looked, normally. I really wouldn’t. But something in me flinched. Some deep, aching instinct, that little voice I’ve been trying to shut up for months, it whispered: Look.

So I did.

Not because I didn’t trust him.

But because I didn’t trust myself to keep ignoring the things I already knew.

6:30 am

Spam Risk

Still thinking about last night

That’s all I saw.

I didn’t need a name.

Didn’t need to scroll or unlock or dig.

The preview said everything.

My body stilled. My chest tightened so suddenly it felt like my lungs had forgotten how to do their job.

Last night?

Last night, he said he was with investors.

Last night, I was curled up under the duvet. He never pulled over me anymore, counting ceiling cracks and pretending not to notice how cold the bed had become.

I just sat there.

Holding a pair of his socks in one hand like I was still doing something normal.

But everything normal was gone.

He came out of the shower maybe two minutes later.

The towel slung low, steam still rising off his skin. Water dripped from his collarbone, and I hated how my body still reacted. Like it didn’t get the memo that my heart had checked out.

He ran a hand through his hair. Casual. Effortless.

Like everything was fine.

“Are you okay?” he asked, voice lazy, eyes half-lidded. “You look off.”

Off?

Off?

I wanted to throw something. Not out of rage, but out of disbelief. Like, wow, you really don’t see it, do you?

I forced a shrug. One of those “don’t worry about me” shrugs. The kind that’s mostly just exhausted air.

“Just tired,” I said.

He smiled a little. Kissed my cheek. His skin was still warm from the shower.

“You work too hard,” he murmured. “I keep telling you to slow down.”

I almost laughed.

And I mean really laughed.

The kind that bubbles up from the pit of your stomach and sounds too loud, too sharp, too painful to be real.

Me? Slow down?

I’ve been dragging this relationship uphill with bleeding hands.

Smiling through splinters.

Cooking meals for a man who hasn’t asked me how my day was in months.

Keeping a home he doesn’t come home to.

And he has the audacity to tell me to slow down?

I bit my tongue.

Swallowed the laugh.

Nodded like a woman who still believed in fairy tales.

Because that’s what you do when you’re too tired to fight and too afraid to fall apart.

I left the house with sunglasses on and zero sleep in my eyes. The kind of tired that goes deeper than your bones; it sits in your soul, heavy and restless. I didn’t bother with breakfast. I just grabbed my keys, threw on that black structured blazer that said "don’t mess with me".

Our building’s elevator hummed too loudly, and the security guard gave me the same polite smile he always did, except today, I couldn’t return it. Not when I felt like I was walking through molasses. Not when my heart felt like it was held together by a single, trembling thread.

I got into my car like I had somewhere better to be than inside my own mind. The city was already alive by the time I hit the expressway; horns, brake lights, impatient drivers, the usual chaos. I liked the noise. It helped drown out the quieter things. The things I wasn’t ready to admit yet.

My office sat on the top floor of a midtown high rise, all glass and steel and soft echoes of success. I built that place from scratch, brick by brick, failure by failure, back when people still mistook me for someone’s assistant. Now I walked in and heads turned, not because of how I looked, but because they knew I ran things. No one asked me for coffee. No one called me sweetheart. They called me Boss.

Savannah was already there when I arrived, leaning against my office door like she owned the damn floor. “Late start?” she said, eyebrows raised, espresso in hand.

“I’m literally five minutes behind,” I muttered, brushing past her. “Don’t start.”

“Girl, that’s five minutes longer with your cheating husband. I’m just trying to make sure you’re still breathing.”

I didn’t answer. I just dropped my bag on the couch and slid into my chair like I’d been there since sunrise. The morning rolled by in a blur of back to back meetings, executive check ins, marketing updates, another budget revision I didn’t ask for. I nodded when I was supposed to, gave directions like it came easily, but inside I was fraying at the seams.

The last meeting of the day dragged on longer than necessary. One of my executives was trying to pitch a new ad campaign, something about “emotional luxury” and “aspirational pain.” I almost laughed. I was experiencing aspirational pain. Front row. Center seat. Designer shoes and all.

By five-thirty in the evening, I shut my laptop, stood up, and said, “I need a drink that isn’t from a boardroom coffee machine.”

Savannah didn’t need convincing. “Let’s go.”

We found a quiet bar with dim lights and velvet booths, tucked between a bookstore and a tattoo shop. The kind of place that didn’t ask questions, just poured good liquor and played old R&B tracks that made you feel things you weren’t ready to name.

Two whiskey sours in, Savannah leaned back, kicking off her heels under the table. “So, when are you going to stop pretending this isn’t killing you?”

I didn’t answer right away. Just watched the ice melt in my glass.

“I’m serious, Mira. This isn’t you. You don’t shrink. You don’t wait for someone to remember you. You run empires.”

“I know,” I said softly, more to myself than to her. “I just forgot for a minute.”

The ride home was quiet. City lights blurred past the window like smudged mascara. I didn’t even notice the time until I stepped into the penthouse, nearly eleven PM. The place smelled like nothing. Empty. Undisturbed.

Tavish wasn’t home.

Of course, he wasn’t.

I kicked off my heels and let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding since morning. Then I walked straight to the kitchen, poured myself a glass of water, and stood there, staring out into the night, wondering how the hell I got here.

A woman with everything, except the man who once swore she was his everything.

I didn’t rush. I didn’t have the energy to.

The apartment lights stayed low as I moved through the space, setting my bag on the side table, sliding out of my heels with a quiet sigh that felt more emotional than physical. My feet ached for sure, but not half as much as my chest did. I stretched my arms overhead, the fabric of my blouse tightening across my shoulders before I slowly unbuttoned it, one snap at a time. Like unpeeling a day that had clung too hard to my skin.

I undressed with the kind of slowness that only comes from exhaustion. The kind of tired that isn’t solved by sleep. My earrings landed in the little ceramic dish on my dresser. My necklace followed, tangled slightly like it had been choking me all day. I tossed my blouse into the hamper, then stood in front of the mirror in just my bra and slacks, staring at myself like I didn’t quite recognize the woman looking back. There were faint smudges beneath her eyes, remnants of mascara. Her lipstick was long gone. Her expression was unreadable. Not sad, not angry. Just dulled. Like the color had been rinsed out of her.

I unclasped my bra and reached for one of Tavish’s shirts, oversized, navy blue, and soft. I wore it because it was clean and comfortable and familiar. Even if that familiarity made my chest twist.

In the bathroom, I wiped my face with micellar water, watching the cotton pad darken with makeup and tiredness. I didn’t bother with a full routine, just splashed cold water over my cheeks and neck, more to wake myself up than cleanse anything. Then a little moisturizer. Lip balm. Nothing fancy. No steps. No serums. Just the basics. Just survival.

I brushed my teeth slowly, staring at the tile while the electric hum of the toothbrush filled the silence. When I spit and rinsed, the cold water made me flinch. I stared at myself in the mirror again. This time, I offered myself a small nod. Not a pep talk. Not some “you got this” energy. Just a silent acknowledgment that she was still here. Still standing. Still breathing.

I turned off the light and padded barefoot to the bedroom. Tossed back the duvet. Slid into bed alone, even though I wasn’t alone. The mattress was cold on my side. The sheets felt stiff. But I didn’t shift. Didn’t curl into myself like I used to. I just laid flat on my back, staring at the ceiling while my thoughts crawled along the edges of my consciousness.

It was past midnight.

Tavish still wasn’t home.