My chest felt like it was caving in. It took me a long moment to steady myself. I lifted my gaze to Miles and spoke, each word deliberate:
"Miles. Tell her exactly what I am to you."
Even now, some part of me clung to hope.
If he would just admit I was his girlfriend—four years of long-distance—I would treat this as a misunderstanding. I would forgive him.
But all he did was frown. He reached for my arm, trying to push me toward the door, his voice a low hiss:
"Stop making a scene. We can talk outside."
I wrenched my arm free, my eyes burning. "I'm the one making a scene?"
"You're the one who's a coward! You're the one playing both of us! You're the one who lied to me for four years!"
I lost control completely. I swept my arm across the coffee table, sending the matching couple's mugs crashing to the floor. Then I grabbed the couple's pajamas hanging on the wardrobe and hurled them down.
Stacy let out a shriek.
Miles's expression turned thunderous.
He grabbed my arm and dragged me roughly toward the door.
"Marilyn, what the hell are you doing?"
"If there's something you want to say, why can't we talk about it in private? Why did you have to make a scene in front of Stacy?"