Except everything had.
The two days before that? We fucked. All the time. Everywhere. Every room, every surface, every fucking corner of the house has pieces of her etched into it now. Her breath, her moans, her goddamn nails in my back.
I gave her the guest room next to mine. Left the door wide open so she’d have easy access, whenever she wanted. It was supposed to be a choice. A safe place, just for her.
She never used it.
That door hasn’t moved a fucking inch.
And still, I tell myself this is all part of the plan. That I’m in control. That I know what I’m doing.
I have a feeling that all I’m actually doing is lying to myself like the biggest fucking idiot on the planet. That I’m digging my own grave with every kiss.
That when the moment of reckoning comes, I won’t be able to make myself pull the switch.
But I can’t stop. I can’t fucking stop.
9. Mrs. Zayas
Adora
Well… I’m Mrs. Zayas now. Once divorced. Twice married. Soon to be twice divorced.
Mrs. Dominic Zayas. God, why is his name so fucking sexy?
I used to scribble that name next to mine on every scrap of paper I could find. Doodles. Hearts. Future daydreams. A whole life imagined, and then ripped away.
We never got that future.
But I swear to God, I’m filing the papers and keeping the name after the divorce. I don’t care what Dominic says. He can pry it from my cold, dead hands.
It’s been a week since the courthouse sham wedding. I saw my whole life flash before my eyes in front of that Justice of the Peace. This marriage thing is madness. Pure madness. My brain short-circuited the second we got to the“I do”part. Honestly, I thought the worst was coming next.
But… it didn’t.
So far, things have been strangely — no,disturbingly— peaceful. I’ll revisit this thought if he chains me to a wall next week, but for now? It’s been food and sex. Everywhere. Kitchen,stairs, hallway, couch, against a window once. Like we’re on some kind of fucked-up honeymoon.
Today’s the first day he had to leave. He glared at me before walking out, and tossed a casual threat over his shoulder like it was a goodbye kiss.
“If you run, I’ll find you. And you’ll regret it.”
I believe him. Every syllable. So I’m not going anywhere. Maybe he knows something I don’t. Maybe if I give him the five months — no drama, no fighting — the guilt that’s been rotting me from the inside out will finally start to die. Maybe I’ll be able to breathe again.
The problem, though? Without him here, I’m bored out of my damn mind.
I already ate all his snacks. Binged two movies back to back. Swam in his pool.
The man has a fucking pool. Because apparently, crime pays like a motherfucker.
He lives in a four-bedroom house with floor-to-ceiling windows, a kitchen ripped out of a designer magazine, extra rooms I haven’t even explored yet, and a pool big enough to drown a small army.
Meanwhile, I spent the last few years eating instant noodles in a 400-square-foot apartment with a mold problem.
I should’ve gone into crime. Clearly, community college was the wrong fucking move.
But bitter jealousy aside, there’s this voice. Quiet. Persistent. Gnawing at the back of my mind. It whispers ‘Be careful.Don’t get too comfortable.This man built a custom underground dungeon just for you.’
I try to ignore it. What the hell am I supposed to do about any of that? Honestly, I’m shocked he even left me alone this long. I thought my goose would be cooked the second he got out of prison.
