EMILE — POV
He rolled out of bed without a single word. Like he hadn’t just rearranged my guts.
Classic Wilbet.
If there’s one thing the man knows how to do, it’s f**k. I’ll give him that. Cold precision. Mechanical. Detached. But still—there’s a hunger to it. A need. I used to think it was about me. Now, I know better. It’s about control. About reminding himself that he still owns something—anything—in a world where everything else is slipping through his fingers.
I stretched, letting the silk sheets pool at my waist, my skin flushed and sticky with the sweat of something that could never quite be called love. I watched him from the bed—back stiff, movements tense, shirt wrinkled from where it had been tossed across the floor last night. He didn’t glance at me. Didn’t say a thing.
“Y
