I opened my eyes. The tears I thought I had run out of were threatening to spill, but I wouldn't let them. Not for him. Not anymore.
I stood up, smoothing down my coat.
“Just process it, Mark. I want it in a week,” I said, my voice shaking but resolute. “Because I’m going to move to another country.”
I went home. Denise was lounging on the sofa, flipping through a magazine. Her hair was a bird's nest, lips swollen, looking thoroughly disheveled. Brandon stood nearby, buttoning his cuffs. As he stepped toward me, the scent hit me instantly.
Musk. Sweat. Sex.
It radiated off him, masking his expensive cologne.
“Maureen, baby, where have you been?” He rushed over, grabbing my hands, his face a mask of worry. “I’ve been texting you like crazy. Look.” He gestured to a vase on the table. “I picked these flowers for you. I prepared a dinner date. Just us. Shall we?”
I looked at the flowers. Then at Denise, who didn't even look up.
I forced a smile. It felt like cracking glass. “I’m tired, Brandon. I just want to sleep.”
He didn't argue. He was the picture of the doting husband. He guided me to the bedroom and pressed a glass of warm milk into my hands.