Page 204 of The Wright Man

Gavin stood there shirtless in sweatpants, leaning against the frame like he hadn't just thrown my whole damn life onto the street.

He blinked at me, lazy and calm. "Can you not yell like that? My son and his mother are inside sleeping."

I froze. His what?

My mouth opened, but no words came. That sentence—so smug, so casual—knocked the wind clean out of me.

"Your son?" I echoed, incredulous.

He just stared, expression cool. Calculated. Unbothered.

The disgust clawed its way up my throat.

"You didn't even have the balls to say anything to me Saturday night when I caught your cheating ass red-handed," I seethed. "But you had the nerve to change the locks and dump my shit on the curb, and move your side bitch and your love child into my house?"

He shrugged. "What was I supposed to say? The cat was out the bag and there was no putting it back in. No point pretending otherwise."

My voice sharpened. "You're sick."

He shrugged again, like I was being dramatic. "You said you wanted to be done. I'm making it easy. I'm being amicable."

I let out a bitter laugh. "This," I snapped, gesturing wide to the curb, to my hair dryer, to my books tossed into a busted Amazon box, "is amicable to you?"

That slow-ass smirk spread across his face like spoiled butter. "Already talked to a lawyer, too. If that helps." He paused. "One less thing on your to-do list. You're welcome."

I nearly choked on my own spit. The audacity of this man could power a small country.

"I cannot believe you," I hissed. "You were just badgering me about trying for another baby three days ago. You don't get to treat me like this."

He lifted an eyebrow. "Oh? And you don't think running to fuck someone else right after throwing yourself at me like a whore two weeks ago is a little hypocritical?"

I blinked, stunned, the insult slicing through the haze of rage like a blade.

But I didn't flinch. Didn't retreat. I stepped forward instead.

"One, I'm not fucking anyone else. Yet. Two... You seriously think me initiating sex with my husband makes me a whore?" My voice trembled—anger, heartbreak, disbelief. "But you having a whole second life with another woman, a son, and who the fuck knows what else behind my back is just... what? Tuesday?"

He leaned his forearm against the doorframe, smug again. "It makes you a whore," he said evenly, "because you did it out of guilt. Because it's no coincidence you only got interested in giving me some ass when your little boyfriend came back into town."

I could've spit fire.

"Oh, you're right," I snapped. "It wasn't a coincidence. It was desperation. My stupid ass was still trying to choose you. Still trying to be faithful to you. Still giving myself to you, even when you didn't deserve it. Even when you were out fucking your secretary and bringing your dirty dick home to me like I should be grateful for the honor."

He rolled his eyes. "Are you done?"

"No," I said. "I'm not."

And then I let loose.

"I held you down. I made excuses for you. I cut off people I loved for you. And you still played me. You gaslit me, guilt-tripped me, made me question myself while you were out building a whole other family like I was just a backup plan. You don't get to act like the victim here, Gavin.

You're not the victim. You're the villain. And you always were."

Every lie. Every humiliation. Every moment I swallowed my gut instincts and called it compromise. I dragged him with the weight of my silence, with all the receipts and none of the grace.

He didn't blink.

So I hit him where it still might matter.