Clara sat on the cold tiles of her bathroom floor, the chill seeping into her bones, prickling against her bare skin where her oversized sweater had slipped off her shoulder.
The air still smelled faintly of Adrian's expensive cologne, mixed now with the sour bite of her anxiety—and something else.
Victory.
It wasn't clean. It wasn't beautiful. But it was a victory.
Her phone sat on the tile beside her, a small web of cracks blooming across its screen, a metaphor almost too fitting to stomach. She'd dropped it earlier when her hands had started shaking after Adrian left the room, the enormity of what she'd just done slamming into her like cold water.
But she wasn't crying now.
Not because she didn't want to—but because she couldn't afford to. Not anymore.
She drew in a sharp breath, steadying herself. The softness, the tears, the fragility—it had worked. It always worked. And now, she just needed to finish what she started.
