The motel room was small, dim, and suffocating. The air smelled faintly of bleach and cigarettes, the walls a dull beige, the bedspread patterned with ugly blue swirls.
But none of that mattered.
What mattered was the silence.
Mark sat on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees, his face buried in his hands. His broad shoulders shook once, barely, before he forced stillness back into them.
I stood by the window, staring out at the flickering neon sign of the vacancy light. My reflection looked like a stranger—wild-eyed, tear-streaked, broken.
The words wouldn’t stop echoing in my head.
“My own daughter.”
“You’re sick.”
“Get out.”
Every syllable was a knife.
And yet… despite the horror of it, despite the guilt ripping me apart, my body still burned for him.
That was the c
