Page 83 of The Most Perfect Wrong

Another ding from my phone, followed by the laptop. But I don’t need to check my phone—the text message pops up on the screen.

It’s from Ryan.

Ryan:You home yet?

My heart drops to the pit of my stomach, my breath catches, and a wave of nausea washes over me.

Oh my God.Brad’s somehow connected my phone to his computer without me knowing.

My brows knit together.Did he want me to see this?With shaking hands, I click into the text messages, my fingers trembling as I navigate to the text thread with Ryan’s name. I click it.

Shit.Every single message since Christmas Day is there. My pulse pounds in my ears as I scroll through the many flirtatious, explicit texts between Ryan and me this past week—not to mention the ones where Ryan asked when I’m leaving Brad. I feel even sicker wondering when Brad set this up. Was it before Christmas Day? Has he seen the texts where I got off to Ryan’s messages while Brad was asleep inside? That would explain his sudden possessiveness and paranoia.

I’m frantic to understand the extension of this invasion. I pull up the settings, trying to figure out exactly what he’s connected to—can he see my emails, my socials?

Another ding.

Brad:I’ll try to be home by 10. Don’t go to bed without me. I’ll want you when I get there.

My mind races. How long has he known? And if he knows, why is he acting normal?

Because he’s jealous.

A cold sweat breaks out across my skin.

He knows.

He fucking knows.

Hewantedme to see this.

He wants me to panic.

This isn’t just about jealousy. He needs to control the situation. Control me.

A chill creeps over me. Brad isn’t overtly aggressive, but he has a temper. A nasty one. And he’s capable of being downright calculating and manipulative. The thought makes my stomach tighten.

I can almost feel his anger simmering below the surface, waiting—patiently.

Dammit. What the fuck is he planning?

I make a beeline for the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of wine off the rack. I rummage frantically through the drawers for the opener, pouring myself a full glass. I down it like I've been stranded on a deserted island.

I pour another. I walk numbly into the living room and sink into the sofa, setting the glass on the coffee table. Leaning forward, elbows on my knees, I let my head hang heavy in my hands. A low groan escapes me as I grip my hair. “Oh my God.” My voice is barely a whisper. My eyes fill, but I’m too numb to cry—too scared. “Fuck.” I sit up, breath shaky, hands unsteady, and take another sip. I slump back, staring into the abyss.

I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here, but at some point, the wine bottle ended up beside me, nearly empty. I chew on my thumbnail, eyes fixed on the door, waiting for Brad to walk through and… And what? What am I even waiting for? A fight? For him to take me to bed—another round of emotionally detached sex where I’ll fake yet another orgasm? What the fuck am I actually waiting for?

I glance at the time—10:15. He should be home any minute now. A sense of dread hovers over me.

Another ding.

Ryan:Can’t wait to see your beautiful face on Monday.

A feeling of warmth rushes through me as I read Ryan’s text, and despite my heavy buzz, clarity hits, quick and sharp. I don’t have to be here, waiting for Brad. I stand, calm and steady, and walk to the kitchen, pouring the last of the wine into a travel mug. I grab my luggage, put on my boots, bundle up, and, with my phone in hand, I walk out the door.

And I don’t look back.

Chapter 25

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