Page 2 of Crown of Blood

God… he looks alive. Starved.

Like she’s air and he’s been suffocating. He's gripping her hips like he might shatter her. The same way he used to hold me in the dark and swear he couldn’t sleep unless I was wrapped around him.

The couch creaks with each thrust. Our couch. The blue one we fought about in IKEA because I liked the velvet and he said it would show stains.

Now it’s rocking beneath them, sweat-slick skin catching the lamplight, their bodies tangled in a way that makes me feel like a stranger in my own life.

And I just… stand there.

Rooted like a corpse, limbs cold, stomach hollow. Grief doesn’t hit me. It just… seeps. Slow and suffocating. Like my insides are filling with cement.

I used to be her.

That used to be me.

But somewhere between our engagement and now, something cracked. And I ignored it. I told myself he was tired. Stressed. That I was being too sensitive when he stopped touching me with hunger. When he stopped seeing me.

And now I see everything. Every missed call. Every cold night. Every headache and late shift and "forgot my charger so I’ll sleep at the office"—

It all makes sense.

Marcus’s head lifts like a string pulled tight. His eyes land on mine, wide and frantic, lips parting as if he’s going to say my name.

He pulls out of her like he’s been burned. Madeline yelps, scrambles to cover herself the moment she turns to see me. But it’s too late. Everything is exposed. Every betrayal is dripping down her thighs.

“Bianca—”

I shake my head. Once.

And once only.

My body turns before my mind does. Legs moving on instinct, carrying me down the hallway past the photos of us smiling at Brighton Beach. That stupid selfie where I had ice cream on my nose and he said he wanted to remember me like that forever.

Past the heart-shaped key holder he bought me for our very first Valentine's Day together. Past the life I built on top of rot.

I grab my bag from the counter. The wine bottle clinks like a casket nail.

I don’t remember deciding to walk back to the hotel. My feet just take me there, soaked through and humming with pain, like they’re more familiar with the path than I am.

The rain is relentless, a steady hiss that fills my ears like white noise. I keep my head down, hoodless, hair slicked to my face. Cars splash puddles against my calves and the freezing cold wind slices straight through my wet tights.

But it’s better than standing still. Better than the sound of her laugh echoing in my skull. Better than the image of his reddened handprint on her pale ass like it belonged there.

Every step is an attempt to scrub that scene from my brain. It doesn’t work.

By the time I reach the back staff entrance, I’m dripping. Mascara smudged halfway down my cheeks. Fingers numb. That stupid Tesco bag slung like dead weight on my arm.

I don't even bother sneaking in. I don't have the energy to lie with my face, only with my mouth.

James is still behind the front desk—bless him, he’s always working the late shifts to help pay for his kids childcare.

He lifts a brow the second he sees me. “Shit, Bianca… Everything alright?”

I nod, then shake my head, then settle somewhere in between.

“There’s a leak in my flat.” The lie tastes bitter, but it's easier to swallow than the truth. “Ceiling’s dripping like a bastard. Maintenance can’t come until morning.”

His gaze lingers on my face for a second too long. I must look like hell.

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