Collins sat in his dimly lit apartment, his hands clenched into fists, knuckles white. His breath was ragged, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts as the image of Cynthia—half-naked, tangled with Mike—flashed in his mind. His best friend. His woman.
A bitter chuckle escaped his lips, but it held no humor. He had always known Mike Richard was reckless when it came to women, but this? This was a different level of betrayal. Cynthia had been his.
The woman he once planned a future with. The woman who had walked away, leaving him with nothing but regret.
His whiskey glass trembled in his grip before he hurled it against the wall.
The shattering sound barely drowned out the chaos in his head. He had spent months convincing himself that Cynthia left because she didn’t love him enough.
