We didn't sleep in the same room last night. The silence between us was thick and suffocating, a reminder of everything that had been broken.
This morning, I found Dominic in the kitchen, but his usual commanding presence was gone, replaced by a tense, restless energy. His hands gripped the counter, knuckles white.
"I know why you're mad," he said quietly. "You told me."
"I did," I snapped. "But you don't get it. You didn't just close my parents' bookstore — you didn't even try to help them."
He swallowed hard, jaw clenched. "It wasn't that simple."
"It is simple," I said, voice rising. "You had the power to help, but you chose not to. You let them lose everything. And you hid it from me."
His eyes darkened with frustration. "You think I wanted that? I made the hard choices to save my company."
"But you didn't save mine," I whispered, tears stinging. "You destroyed my family."
He slammed a fist on the counter. "Enough! You think I'm the villain here? You don't know what I'm carrying."
"I know exactly what you did," I said, voice breaking.
His hand shot out, grabbing the leather case nearby. With a swift, angry motion, he threw it at me.
It missed by inches, crashing into the wall and shattering the frame of a picture.
I stumbled back, heart pounding, tears spilling over.
"No," I whispered, sobbing. "Don't."
I turned and ran, desperate for safety.
I slammed the bedroom door behind me, locking it tight, and collapsed to the floor, shaking.
Outside, his footsteps stopped.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't mean to scare you."
But the damage was done.
Through my tears, a cold thought sliced through the chaos:
Two months.
Two months left of this contract.
Two months of holding on — barely.