Midnight arrived, and each tick echoed through the empty apartment. The storm outside mirrored the chaos raging within Emily, rain battering the windows. Sitting stiffly on the sofa, her nails dug into the fabric as she stared at the door. David's keys jangled in the lock; his muffled laugh—light and carefree—began to seep through before he stumbled inside.
Reeking of bourbon, he swayed slightly. Yet it wasn't the whiskey that twisted her stomach. It was the cloying scent of jasmine clinging to his shirt—a fragrance that screamed of someone else.
Emily's voice trembled, though she'd been whispering the question to herself all evening. "Where were you?"
David's grin faded as he dropped onto the couch. "Got stuck at work. You know how it is."
Rising on shaky legs, she hissed, "Work ends at six. Two hours—gone. And since when does the office wear *lipstick*?"
Too vivid, too *real* for his colorless life, his hand jerked toward the red smear on his sleeve. His face hardened like stone. "You're imagining things."
"Am I?" she muttered, stepping closer, jasmine stinging her senses.
"Or is it Jane? The one who 'needs your advice' every time I call?"
He laughed—sharp and empty. "You're insane. Always looking for a fight—"
"Insane?" her voice wavered. "You haven't touched me in months! You come home smelling like *her*, lying—"
His hand slammed against the table, making the vase rattle. "Enough!"
"What's your purpose anymore if all you do is sit here and *wait* to accuse me?"
The words cut deeper than she would admit. "I gave up my job for you," she whispered. "For *us*—"
"*Us?*" He sneered. "There *is* no us. Just you, digging through my life like some—"
The slap caught her off guard. Her head whipped sideways, cheek blazing as she stumbled against the wall. Blood pooled beneath her tongue. He loomed above her, eyes cold and foreign. Grabbing his coat, he spat, "You... you *made* this happen. Fix yourself. You're pathetic."
The door slammed shut. Emily crumpled to the floor, tears mingling with blood. Thunder grumbled outside, but beneath the numbness, something shifted. Her gaze locked on the shattered vase, glass shards glittering in the dim light.
*Pathetic.* The word coiled tightly inside her, turning to resolve. She would stand. Not for him. Not for their past. But to watch him choke on the ashes of the life he'd burned.
Rage crackled in the air. David's breath turned ragged; his mask began to slip. Emily's eyes blazed, blood streaking her chin.
"You think Jane *chose* you?" she spat. "Or is she just sorry for the man who needs whiskey and cheap flings to feel alive?"
His face went pale. "Forget it. I'm done."
"Why?" Her laugh was sharp and brittle. "Hit a nerve? You're pathetic, David. A sleek, suited puppet. Did you earn that promotion, or beg for it? Just like your father always said—you'd never be enough."
He swung, but her voice sliced through the air like a knife. She ducked, sidestepping him.
"Does Jane know you can't even—"
"Shut up!" he roared, fists trembling.
She stepped closer, her voice venomous. "Can't even *what*? Keep a promise? Or is that why you're so bad at—"
The slap cracked like ice splintering.
Emily crumpled to the floor, head pounding and palms streaked with cuts. Only her jagged breathing disturbed the silence.
David stood over her, hand still trembling. "You... you *made* me," he muttered hoarsely.
She lifted her head, tears streaking her face. "No," she rasped. "You just showed me how *small* you are. Isn't that right?"
He flinched, then grabbed his keys. "Rot here," he mumbled, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the walls.
Alone, Emily pressed her palm to the floor. His mark throbbed, but beneath it, something stronger burned.
*Little.* Fingers curling around a shard of glass, her grip tightened. Not broken. Not beaten. Just... ready.