The silence in the house felt different tonight. Not the silence of peace, but the silence that waits for something to break.
James had gone upstairs hours ago, leaving behind half a glass of whiskey and a trail of regret that still lingered like stale smoke. I sat alone on the couch, staring at the faint reflection of myself in the black television screen — the woman who lied for her husband, not out of loyalty, but strategy.
I wasn’t his savior. I was his reckoning, just delayed.
The reporters’ visit had shifted everything. Their questions, their hungry eyes, their mics pointed at our pain — it had all been Darius’s move. His way of testing whether I’d bend or burn. But instead, I’d smiled, turned my head just so, and told them exactly what I wanted the world to hear. That was my game
