"Anya, after your shower, go to bed early. Don't catch a cold. I promise I'll make it official tomorrow—you'll be my new assistant," Tristan said, his voice warm, dripping with a false gentleness that had once been mine.
I stood just outside the hospital door, my fingers curling against the door frame until my knuckles turned white. The muffled sounds of their laughter pierced through the crack. Then came the onslaught of kisses, wet and desperate, accompanied by hushed giggles and the sound of skin brushing against fabric. My chest tightened, each sound a dagger that drove deeper.
I didn't know what hurt more—my shattered spirit or my battered body. My legs felt weak and I leaned against the door for support. I no longer had the strength to bear this.
That evening, Tristan stumbled into our room, reeking of alcohol. His gait was uneven, but his face glowed with an eerie cheerfulness. His eyes held a spark of glee, but it wasn't for me.
"I brought you something to eat. Get up and have a bite," he said, his tone brusque yet oddly playful. He placed a container on the nightstand, then reached down to help me sit up.