James Sinclair
My mind replayed the scenario in my head, over and over again.
Olivia had struck me.
The slap rang out like a gunshot in the silence between us, the sharp crack of her palm against my cheek reverberating in the tense air. The sting barely registered, a distant sensation compared to the cold, suffocating weight pressing against my ribs. The real pain wasn’t on my skin—it was inside me, spreading like poison through my veins, sinking its claws deep into my chest.
My head barely moved from the force of her strike, but it may as well have knocked me to the ground.
I stood there, frozen, locked in place by something I couldn’t name, something heavier than shock and darker than guilt. My breath felt trapped in my throat, and I swore my heart forgot how to beat for a moment.
