The silence between them was a loaded gun.
Mike stood with his back to her, fists clenched, shoulders rising and falling with slow, deliberate breaths.
The expensive suit jacket he wore had slipped halfway off one shoulder, wrinkled and strained like he’d been pacing for hours—like he was holding something in. Something violent.
Cynthia didn’t dare speak. She couldn’t. Her throat felt like sandpaper, her lips trembling. Her heart beat in uneven rhythms, hammering against her ribs as she waited—for a sign, for forgiveness, for war. She had no idea which he’d choose.
But then he turned.
And in his eyes—no warmth, no forgiveness. Just hunger. Rage. And jealousy so thick it made the air pulse with electricity.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t ask. He moved.
One second she was standing near t
