Adrian sat in his apartment, the soft clink of ice against glass the only sound filling the room, save for the faint hum of his laptop's fan. The amber swirl of whiskey in his tumbler matched the way his insides felt—burning, slow, and heavy.
He should have turned it off the second the notification pinged on his phone.
Clara Marquez is LIVE.
But he didn't.
Instead, he sat there like an idiot, staring at the woman he once thought he wanted, tears streaking down her perfectly made-up face, that soft tremble in her voice—the carefully measured pauses, the "authentic" cracks of grief. He knew Clara. Knew how good she was at making herself the victim, at twisting words into silk ribbons she could tie into a noose for someone else's reputation.
But still… this wasn't what gutted him.
No, what gutted him was the look in her eyes when she touched her stomach.
He didn't need her to say it.
