Cain
She’s not speaking. Just breathing.
Heavy. Shaky. Like every inhale costs her pride and every exhale bleeds out the rest of her dignity. And me? I’m just sitting here like a monster who doesn’t know how to say sorry without breaking something else.
The silence is brutal.
I crack first.
“Say something.”
She laughs—dry, humorless, like a blade gliding over bone. “You want words now? After throwing me in like I’m your f*cking property?”
I don’t answer. Because yes. Yes, I do want words. Even if they’re dipped in venom. Even if they gut me.
“Don’t look at me like that, Cain,” she says, voice rising, “like you’re the victim of your own decisions. You dragged me out in front of everyone. Like a caveman. Like a psycho.”
I tap the steering wheel, jaw tight. “Maybe I am.”
“Congrats.”
