“You think this is a joke?” My voice trembled.
“No.” He shifted and his arms crossed, that maddening calm still intact. “I think you’re making declarations about our future that I haven’t agreed to, but go on,” he prompted, voice neutral. “I’m listening.”
I stared at him, trying to read the subtle shift in his expression. Was he mocking me? Did he think this was a moment of feminine hysteria he could weather and then move past? The way he looked at me—patient, almost indulgent—sent a fresh wave of fury through my veins.
“You think I’m being dramatic. That this will pass.”
“I think,” he replied carefully, “that you’re hurt. Rightfully so. I think you need to say what you’re feeling.”
His words were reasonable, almost understanding, but something in his tone felt wrong. Like he was placating me now rather than confronting the gravity of what had happened.
“I don’t want to have a heart to heart about what I’m feeling. I want you to know that whatever whore comes next—and we both know there will be a next—keep her far from this house. Bring her here while Niko is under this roof and I promise you, you will be the one cleaning up what’s left of her. That is the only thing I will ever say to you about it.”
I held his gaze and let the silence do the rest.
“Outside of our son and whatever I owe the Kostas name, you and I are done speaking.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
If I hadn’t been watching him, I would have missed it—the smallest fracture in his expression. I wasn’t finished either. What he didn’t know was that none of this mattered. I already. This conversation would soon be nothing but noise.
His voice came low and controlled. “There are no whores or mistresses and there won’t be. You are the only woman I have—who I want. You think I’m going to stand aside while my wife pretends she lives alone? That you won’t be in our bed at night?”
“You gave up your spot inmybed the moment you let her touch you. So yes. That is exactly what you’re going to do.”
“You don’t get to unilaterally decide how our marriage continues.”
I shifted my weight. He was not my father. I had to keep reminding myself of that as little alarm bells started going off in my head because though I knew every line of that face, had memorized it in the dark, right now he was more like a stranger wearing my husband's face.
“I’m not deciding anything. I’m telling you what is.”
“You believe we can live separate lives under one roof? No. That’s not fucking happening.”
“No? We already do.” My voice cracked on the last word and I hated myself for it. “You are never here. You have not been here. Apparently you’ve been somewhere, with that whore, and I have been—“ I stopped. Swallowed. “Ihave been here every day waiting for you.”
The plastic of the taser dug into my palm through the fabric of my pocket. He was looking at me the way he always did—straight through me, unflinching—like a man who had decided the truth was the only weapon worth carrying.
He kept advancing. “That little bitch doesn’t mean anything, Selene. She never has. I chose you. I choose you every single day. You and our son. That’s why I’m not here. I’m not fucking losing you over doing what was necessary to keep you safe.”
My eyes stayed locked on his.
The words landed somewhere between a lifeline and a detonator. Every instinct I had screamed to close the distance and claw them out of the air, to unhear them, because I knew what they were doing to me.
My pulse was a fist against my ribs. I hated him for saying it. I hated myself more for the way something in my chest went quiet and treacherous at the sound of it—a relief so shameful I would sooner have swallowed glass than let him see it cross my face. Even if he was protecting me, that had nothing to do with what I’d walked in on tonight. I could argue that was the very opposite of what he claimed he’d been doing.
“You don’t love me,” I repeated, the fact of it laid flat between us as I stepped back. “You don’t respect me either. Not the way you claim to. I could survive without love, I’ve been doing it my entire life. I cannot survive without that.”
I loved for the door, and he moved too.
He stepped into my path. “Where do you think you’re going?”
His hand rose between us and I reacted instinctively. The taser was already in my grip before I’d made any decision at all—the plastic slick with sweat, my sister’s voice somewhere in the back of my skull, her hands closing mine around it the day she gave it to me. I didn’t warn him. I didn’t say his name. I drove it into his side and pressed the button and held it there.
The blue arc was ugly and small and it dropped him.
His knees hit the floor hard. The sound he made—I had never heard him make a sound like that. His hand shot out and caught his body, his suit jacket bunching at the shoulder. He stayed there, one knee down, head bowed, breathing through his teeth.
I stood over him, momentarily frozen as my stomach dropped.
