Page 45 of Peak Cruelty

“I’ll be in the other room,” I say.I let the pause stretch—just long enough to taste.“Waiting.”

Then I turn.

No towel.No apology.No mercy.

And I walk away like nothing happened.

Because now?

Now he’s the one who gets to sit with it.

23

Vance

She leaves with nothing but the dare in her voice.

Waiting.

The bite of the apple still echoes.Crisp.Final.Like she knew that sound would follow me into every room.

I don’t follow her.Not yet.I need to reset.I need to think.

I stare at the spot where she stood.At the wet footprints vanishing into tile.At the place she knelt and made it look like worship.

But it wasn’t.

It was a dare.

She told me what I wanted to hear.Gave me the confession.The tears.The submission.

But not the truth.

Not the way I need it.

She turned it into theater.Bent the script.And then walked offstage as though she owned the whole production.

I realize I’m still holding the glass.I set it down.Slowly.Like it’s wired to blow.

It leaves a ring on the counter.I wipe it away with my palm and then stare at the streak it leaves behind.

I don’t know what to do with this—with her.The wet, calm thing that offered herself up like a sacrifice and smiled while she bled.

Not in the literal sense.

But that’s coming.Soon.

I told myself this was about justice.About truth.About making sure someone paid for what they did.

Now I’m not sure who I’m punishing.

I don’t believe her.Not entirely.She’s not stupid.She had to knowsomething.The lie was too practiced.But it was designed to make me feel something—and I did.

That’s what makes it dangerous.

I walk to the bathroom and stop in the doorway.

Still wet.

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