Miren stood directly in front of the single, heavy door leading into the inner sanctum of the penthouse.
He looked disgustingly domestic, clutching a sprawling bouquet of white lilies in one arm and a basket of absurdly expensive fruit in the other. A designer gift bag dangled from his wrist, the logo deliberately visible.
My own empty hands curled and uncurled at my sides.
'Fuck. He's more prepared than I am.'
"Hey! I asked you a question!" he snapped, his face already seething with that familiar, entitled rage.
"Do you know how much of a parasitical fuck you are, Miren?" I said, pinching the bridge of my nose.
He didn't skip a beat, launching into his usual script.
"Don't act like you're her wife. You're not her wife," he sneered. "You're a slut. The moment she's done with you, she'll move on like she always does."
His eyes flicked pointedly to my empty fingers.
"And unlike you," he added softly, "I don't have to pretend."
