I didn’t even slam the door when I left—he didn’t deserve the drama. I wanted silence. Silence and the cold grip of my fury. That kind of quiet anger that doesn’t need yelling to be loud.

Rafe Cameron. God, even his name made my stomach twist.

We’d said, “Let’s take a break.” Like we always do. But that didn’t mean “Go find the nearest Barbie and let her ride your lap like it’s Six Flags.” I saw the picture. Blonde. Tanned. Laughing. And Rafe? His hand was exactly where it shouldn’t be.

I didn’t text. I didn’t scream. I opened his bank app. Still had the login. Of course I did. We’re that kind of toxic. Designer bag? In the cart. Dior foundation, Fenty gloss, rare drop Gucci heels? Click, click, cha-ching.

Let him see every charge. Every email confirmation. I imagined him looking at his phone, frowning with that smug smirk that always said “Oh, she’s mad mad.”

Good. Be confused. Be broke. Be reminded.

Because I wasn’t just mad. I was disappointed. And hurt. That sharp, throat-tight hurt that you don’t even want to cry over because it makes you feel stupid. I gave him everything—time, love, secrets. I let him in.

And he let some bleach-blonde airhead sit where I should’ve been.

I sprawled across the silk sheets of the bed he paid for, wearing a robe I made him buy during a “make-up” weekend in Miami. The bag from earlier still sat unopened by the closet. I didn’t need it. I just needed the message to be loud.

Until there was a knock. No. Not a knock.

A key.

I sat up, heart hammering even though I wanted to stay chill. Calm. Unbothered.

The door creaked, and there he was. Leaning in the doorway like the goddamn cover of a mistake I’d make again. Tan skin, arrogant smile, that annoying confidence dripping off him like expensive cologne.

“Well,” Rafe drawled, eyes lazily scanning the shopping bags and then me. “Did we enjoy our little shopping spree, princess?”

I hated how fast my skin flushed. Hated how his voice made my thighs press together.

I narrowed my eyes. “Depends. Did she enjoy your lap?”

He chuckled, stepping closer. No apology in sight. Just that cocky glint. “You said break. Not funeral.”

I threw a pillow at him. He caught it easily, tossing it aside. “Oh, come on. You don’t miss me?” he whispered, voice like velvet and danger.

I didn’t answer.

Because my silence said everything.

And he knew it.