Page 90 of Cold Mercy

But the lie works. She flinches as if I slapped her, the vulnerability vanishing behind a wall of ice.

“Smothered,” she repeats, her tone cooling instantly. “Right, I forgot. You’re a stray. You come and go as you please.”

“Exactly,” I say, turning away so I don’t have to look at her. “Don’t wait up.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she shoots back.

I walk out the door without looking back, the guilt sitting heavy in my chest.

The cold air hits me like a slap. I keep walking down her driveway, ribs aching, knee sore, everything inside me pulling backward toward her.

When I finally reach the street, I stop dead. There, parked exactly in front of her house, is my car. Not the wrecked one, this one is spotless. Repaired down to the last detail, like someone rebuilt it from memory. I step closer, stunned, and that’s when I see a note tucked under the wiper.

I pull it out.

The keys are in your jacket.

Drive safely. ♡

For a moment I just stand there, staring at the handwriting, feeling something in my chest twist so tightly I have to steady myself against the car.

She did this, she repaired it for me.

I sit behind the wheel and close my eyes. I can’t keep this going much longer. Because the more she gives me, the more she cares without even meaning to,

more I know one truth with terrifying clarity.

When she finds out who I am…she won’t love me, she won’t even look at me.

I drive straight to my apartment, grab the useless notes, and head for the parking lot, with a stomach full of glass. The trip feels longer than it is, too much time to think, too much time to feel like the worst version of myself.

Grace doesn’t knock. She never does, but today the door swings open like she wants to rip it off the hinges, and for a split second I’m convinced she’s here to kill me.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?!”

The entire car shakes as she drops into the seat and slams the door hard enough to echo. I knew this confrontation was coming, but I hoped I’d have time to steady myself.

“She called herself your wife, Thomas. Your wife.” Her voice cracks like a whip.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

My pulse spikes. Not out of guilt, I crossed that bridge long ago.

“Grace—”

“Shut. Up.” She leans across the console, finger stabbing the air between us.

“You don’t talk. You listen.”

I grip the steering wheel, jaw tight, because she’s right. Anything I say now will only feed the fire.

“You compromised everything. Everything. And for whom, for fucki—” She bites down on the words, then spits them out anyway. “For a woman you were supposed to watch, not sleep next to!”

“We didn’t sleep together.”

“Oh, congratulations, do you want a medal? Because you sure as hell acted like you wanted to,” she continues. “You let her into your life. You let her touch you like she had a right to,” her voice lowers, shaky and cold. “I didn't raise you that way.”

I look away for half a heartbeat, because if she sees what I feel in my eyes, if she sees how deeply Sophia got under my skin, she’ll know there’s no undoing it.