Page 51 of Dual
"Domhnall, stop!" Moira tries. "He's a cockroach with a camera. Let him go!"
They start to have some back and forth, and I distantly notice another big guy behind Moira. But I'm too busy feeling that swimmy sensation like when Anna's trying to switch.
Fuck no, bitch.
You let me into the party.
No takebacks now.
Especially when a glance over Domhn's shoulder as he crunches the photographer's SD card underfoot shows a flood of other paparazzi who figured out the real action was out back, not in the front.
"Donny!" I shout, throwing up my arms just as more flashbulbs start popping off all around us.
Well, fuck.
There goes my plan to stay incognito.
SIXTEEN
New Year's Day
MADS
The suitcase sits openon the bed like a hungry mouth waiting to be fed. I throw in essentials, not bothering to fold anything. A scarf tumbles out of my hands, and I feel a sharp ache looking at it—green cashmere, Domhnall's Christmas gift from last week, still carrying his scent.
Fuck me, this is harder than I thought.
My hands want to shake, but I won't let them. I've been preparing for this day for months now, ever since that firstmessage in the chat room.If you're reading this, you're already in trouble.
I was already living on borrowed time. Taking what didn't belong to me. And now the bill has come due.
There's a picture of Anna and Domhnall on the dresser, a candid shot he took of her laughing at something he said. I pick it up, running my finger along the curve of his jaw. Then I force myself to set it down, face-first against the wood.
This isn't my life. It never was.
From the moment I woke up and saw theDallas Morning Postwith our photo splashed across the social pages, I knew it was over. That stupid fucking photographer caught me outside the gala, cigarette in hand, my face furious and exposed. There's no hiding now. My careful camouflage has been blown to bits because I couldn't keep Anna from playing fucking society wife.
I should've left that night. But I couldn't.
"You let her have Christmas," I mutter to myself, stuffing jeans into the bag. "And you let yourself have New Year's."
Last night plays through my head on a loop. The way Domhnall looked at me when the clock struck midnight, like he knew exactly who he was kissing. Like he could see every sin I've ever committed and still wanted to press his mouth to mine. And after, in our bedroom, the way he took me was slow and deliberate.
No games, no pain, just his eyes locked on mine while he moved inside me.
"You're here," he'd whispered, hand curved around my cheek. "Right here with me."
And for once, I didn't want to run. I wanted to stay. To belong to him in a way I've never belonged to anyone.
The memory slices through me, sharper than any knife.
But he's at work now, and I need to be gone before he gets back. Clean break. No messy goodbyes. That was always the plan.
I reach into my pocket, pulling out the letter I wrote. I place it carefully on his pillow; it doesn't explain everything, just enough. I tell him I'm sorry but not that I love him, even though the words burn in my throat like acid.
The clock on the nightstand reads 1:17 p.m. I need to go.
I look around the room one last time, committing it to memory—the rumpled sheets still bearing the impression of our bodies. The bathroom door left ajar. His watch forgotten on the dresser. All the pieces of a life I was stupid enough to think I could keep.
