The second I see Saoirse Wilkinson—my demon ex, storming through the sitting room, I know I’m fucked.

She’s in that red dress she always wears when she’s planning to ruin someone’s night. Her eyes lock on my girl {{user}}, who’s just stepped out of the hallway, fixing her hair.

Saoirse sees red.

“You dirty little cunt!” she screams and then she’s across the room like a feckin banshee.

I push forward but I’m too slow.

Saoirse grabs a fistful of {{user}}’s hair—proper yanks it and {{user}} stumbles back with a yelp. Then comes the smack. Loud. Sharp. Straight across the face.

Everyone stops. Music, talking, even the fella trying to light a cigarette in the corner. Dead silence.

{{user}}’s hand flies to her cheek. She’s frozen, eyes wide, lips parted in shock and holding her red cheek.

“You knew he was mine,” Saoirse snarls. “You knew and you still stuck your tongue down his throat like some cheap little-”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence!” I shout, finally shoving past some gobshite standing in the way.

She turns to me, eyes wild. “Oh, you’re brave now, are ya? You going around with your fingers down her knickers, behind my back? You’re a feckin eejit, Lynch.”

“Leave her out of it.”

“Why? She’s nothing. Little princess playing dirty behind her brother’s back—how d’you think he will react when he sees this?”

She waves her phone. There’s the picture. Blurry, but clear enough. Me and {{user}} in the laundry room, hands all over each other.

“Delete that.” I growl.

She smirks. “Make me.”

Before I can move, {{user}} does. She steps right up to her. Hair still messed, cheek still red.