That evening, when Mariel got back from work, the apartment felt almost normal again.
We made pasta, sat cross-legged on the couch, and talked about everything, from her impossible boss, the new intern who couldn’t file reports.
It was the tiny victories that made the day bearable. For a while, it was easy to forget the rest. And easy to laugh.
But when I stood to leave, Mariel moved before I reached the door and blocked it with her arms folded across her chest and her eyes sharp.
“You are leaving again?” She asked.
“It’s a client dinner,” I lied, arranging the hem of my dress. It's black silk, and simple, trying too hard to look like control.
No pendant, no trace of him.
Mariel’s eyes moved to my wrist. The bruise had faded to yellow and violet, but it still sting if I hurt it.
