Monday arrived like a slap.
Sophia woke up with the emotional stability of a damp tissue. She showered, moisturized, highlighted, set her hair, whispered affirmations to herself in the mirror, and still looked like a woman who had sung Olivia Rodrigo to a German billionaire over the phone at 1:52 in the morning.
She refused to think about it. Absolutely refused.
Dominic, brushing his teeth next to her, did not share the same policy.
“Do you think he told his girlfriend?” Dominic asked with a mouthful of foam. “Because if someone sang Traitor at me past midnight, I would file a restraining order and then block their entire bloodline.”
Sophia threw a towel at him. “Shut up. I am trying to heal.”
“Healing is not possible. Only consequences.”
She kicked him out of the bathroom.
By the
