The movement replayed in slow motion—her hesitation, the way her weight shifted, the unbearable softness in her expression. The softness that used to be his.
Willow flinching from him.
The moment ripped him open anew. Her instinctive recoil. The slight backward pull. The tiny withdrawal she maybe didn't even realize she made—but he felt it like a blade between the ribs.
Willow kissing Victor's cheek.
That… that was the one that made his vision splinter. It wasn't jealousy—it was devastation. It was the stark, merciless contrast between what he wanted and what she reached for.
The damned tutu lying on the gravel.
A symbol of innocence crushed underfoot. A reminder of what they were supposed to be building together—a life, a future, a child. And seeing it abandoned there, discarded, felt like a warning. Like an omen.
Her hand on her stomach.
