I don’t remember what started the argument. I only remember how it felt.
Tight. Like my skin didn’t fit.
Rayven was standing across from me in our bedroom, hands open, voice calm in that careful way he uses when he thinks I’m fragile. “I didn’t mean it like that, little bird.”
“Then how did you mean it?” My voice was already shaking.
He had been talking about the past. About loss. About fear. About almost losing me during childbirth. About Layla.
He hadn’t said her name in months. But tonight he did. And something inside me cracked open.
“Stop comparing,” he said softly.
“I’m not comparing!” I snapped. “I’m asking.”
His jaw tightened slightly. “Asking what?”
The question sat like poison on my tongue. And I let it out anyway. “Am I just a substitute?”
Silence. I hated the silence.
