“I am going to spend the night with Brianna. Do not wait up for me.”
That text hit my phone at 7:08 PM while I was seasoning the cast-iron skillet and the smell of rosemary filled our kitchen in the suburbs of Phoenix. It was six words without a hint of remorse or a flimsy excuse to soften the blow.
Dorian always possessed that chilling composure, delivered with the calm of a man who believed he was untouchable by consequences. I gripped the counter for a second before typing my only response: “Thank you for the heads-up.”
I refused to give him the satisfaction of a breakdown or a screaming match. I simply turned off the burner, dragged three heavy-duty bins from the garage, and began clearing out his existence as if he were a squatter whose time had finally run out.
I packed his designer suits, his expensive cologne that I had purchased for his birthday, and the gaming headset he used to shout at strangers online. I even grabbed the framed photo of our trip to Sedona that sat on the mantel, as if a piece of glass could make a hollow relationship feel like a home.
By 11:30 PM, the bed of my pickup truck was loaded to the brim with his life. At 11:50 PM, I pulled up to a charming little house on a quiet street in Scottsdale where Brianna lived with her manicured lawn and hanging ivy.
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