Michael’s eyes darted between the gun in Delilah’s hand and her cool, firm expression.
The sleek, black metal gleamed under the dim light of the bedroom, and the realization hit him like a brick: it was real.
His throat tightened as he imagined her pulling the trigger, and his body felt heavier, his carefully constructed world still cracking like glass.
"The person I’m talking about," Delilah said, her voice smooth but edged with something darker, "the one who needs justice, is your wife."
Michael froze, his breath hitching. His wife.
Delilah took a slow step back, her gaze lingering on him before she turned toward the wall.
Mounted there was a photo of Mrs. Madison, smiling wide, her eyes lit with a happiness Michael remembered only too well.
The very image of the perfect wife.
